


the east wind comes

by HelmetParty



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood As Lube, Bottoming from the Top, Choking, Darkfic, Double Penetration in Two Holes, Electrocution, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, M/M, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Overstimulation, Past Rape/Non-con, Porn With Plot, Public Humiliation, Rape Aftermath, Rape Fantasy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Repressed Memories, Rough Sex, Sexism, Sexual Violence, Unbeta'd, Unsafe Sex, Vaginal Sex, Violent Sex, Vomit kink, Vomiting, Watersports, Weird Plot Shit, Witnessing rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2019-10-23 06:38:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17678357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelmetParty/pseuds/HelmetParty
Summary: The Entity understands it's killers have needs, and places a curse on Quentin so that those needs can be fufilled. Unfortunately for Quentin, he didn't have any say in the matter.Ships in their respective chapter names.





	1. Michael / Quentin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this Dragon Age fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9671585?view_full_work=true). Also inspired by [ this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15822606/chapters/36836109), which has had me thinking about Quentin non-stop! Please go read both of these (better) fics, and support their respective authors.
> 
> Finally, exercise your self care perk and do not read or comment if you dislike this fic or it's materials. 
> 
> On another note, im open to ship / pairing requests for this, even outside if M/M. You want a Quentin rarepair written? Just ask, and ye shall receive!

 Quentin sometimes lost track of himself. Exhausted almost constantly, on occasion he would zone out, either in thought or involuntary by his tired body. He was an expert, at this point, at living this way, but in the Entity's realm it was much more unforgiving when you made a mistake. Not only did he have Krueger to fear, but a dozen other no-good psychos, too. And sometimes, determination wasn’t enough to see him through to the exit gates.

 He had no idea which one was after him this time. He fiddled with the wires in the generator, trying his best, truthfully, but unsure if he was doing it right. He was still somewhat new to this world, if you could call it that, but even so it's not like he could ever fully adapt. Everything in this place was geared against him; against them all.

 None of his fellow survivors stuck with him this time, either. Jake was a lone wolf and Feng was too, but her and Claudette had teamed up for this trial, apparently. As such, it became a chore to stay awake. Usually he would have better luck if he had someone to talk to, or at the very least someone to look at; but alas, sometimes it didn't work out like that. He was, to his field of view, absolutely alone. He couldn't even see another generator in sight.

 He works unremittingly on the generator, his flashlight on the ground next to him in the case he saw movement and wanted a quick escape. He eyes it to make sure it’s still there, and of course, there it lies. (Sometimes, you would set down something you carried only to have it disappear. This world was _definitely_ against them.)  The generator was almost finished, he could see the fourth gear start to come to life, and a sliver of hope shines in his dread full heart; maybe he would get out this time. Too much too recently had he died trying to save someone, or got caught for tripping on a rock or because he had fucked up on a gen while lost in thought.

 Oh, how art imitates life. Or something like that.

 Thinking about how often he was lost in thought, as such, he was lost in it as well. The explosion of the generator is what brings him back, the white smoke flying into his face with a loud **bang**. As second nature, he covers his face and eyes from the blast, leaning back to avoid most of the smoke and debris.

 His heart flared to life. He hadn’t seen the killer this trial, nor had he heard his friends screaming...that likely meant that he still had yet to find one of them, or at the very least was eager to finally hook someone.

 Even though he hears nothing, he thinks it better safe than sorry to take a moment to hide, just in case whoever it was did decide to investigate. Quickly, he stays low to the ground and makes his way to a cluster of barrels and other mechanic rubble. Behind them he sits, able to see the gen through a space between the barrels. His breath hitches in his throat as he surveys, part of him relieved that the killer hadn’t come, and another part of him terrified for the fact that said killer hasn’t been in this area for a long time, at the very least.

 A few minutes pass, and Quentin still sees nothing. No movement, no humming ( _thank God_ ), no heartbeat. Silence, aside from the occasional crow’s cawk. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, they didn’t even hear it. Maybe he was in the clear, after all. Silently, he makes his way back to the generator. It’s rapid humming fills his ears, and subsequently himself with motivation to finish this. Too often he was the first to be caught, the first to be hooked. He wanted to, at the very least, be a useful asset to his little team of survivors.

 He puts his hands back into the generator. He focuses his mind, refusing to be caught up in idle thoughts this time, actively working to push them away with his sleepiness.

 Over the generator’s purr and his focused goal, he is unable to spot a familiar shape in the distance.

 It would be just his luck to be caught when he was finally focused.

 A single strong arm is all it takes for Quentin to be lifted off his feet, and onto the shoulders of the killer. He only saw his face for a split second, but is positive when he sees the man’s jumpsuit; it was Myers. Of course it was Myers, of _all_ people…

 Sure he was going to the hook, he wiggles and struggles in his arms. He didn’t have much time, though, as if in one big stride Myers takes him and throws him down on the pile of barrels he was hiding behind previously. With a gasp, it feels like all of the air has left his lungs as he hits the metal with a clang. Before his eyes even open again, he feels Michael’s body touch his. Two hands take Quentin’s legs and spread them, pulling him closer so that Michael is felt on his ass. Quentin opens his eyes abruptly, looking down at his groin rather than to his face; he sees a wet mark on his jumpsuit, and a large tent where his cock would be.

 Oh, Christ.

 Quentin was jarred. He suddenly didn’t feel tired anymore.

 Michael suddenly thrusts forward, grinding on his ass through their clothes. Usually silent, Quentin can now hear Myers’ heavy breaths through the muddy white mask.

 “Wait!” Quentin yells in fear, his face turning a shade of bright pink. “What are...what are you…?”

 Michael says nothing, of course. He continues to thrust through their clothes. Quentin tries to wiggle out of his grasp, but that only makes Michael’s hold on his legs tighter.

 Michael stops, quickly pulling Quentin’s jeans down. With his belt, it’s tough, and it's on tight and it drags against his skin gratingly; Quentin tries to push Michael’s hands away. “Just- let me d-do it!”, he hisses. If this was...going to happen, at the very least he would try to lessen the pain of it.

 Michael stops, only to take care of his own pants.

 Slowly he undoes his belt. He doesn’t even get to pull it off before Michael’s patience wears thin, his hands pulling his jeans completely off in one swift motion.

 What the _fuck_ was going on?

 Michael wastes no time, as if a dog in heat. He places the tip of his throbbing cock at Quentin’s hole, and pushes in.

 “ _No_ !” Quentin yells, louder than he should have; he didn’t want this to happen, but it would be even worse if one of his friends we’re to see this happening. He couldn’t bare the embarrassment, he would surely rather kill himself instead. “You h-have to open me first, otherwise I’ll-” _hurt_ ? Isn’t that what these... _things_ did to them? Why would a stoic murderer care about that?

 And it seems like he didn’t. Quentin’s rejections fall on deaf ears as Myers enters anyway. A jolt of pain and burning flows through him, his hands digging into his jacket, desperate for something to hold on to.

 He wasn’t going to pretend like he hasn’t looked at Myers this way. He _did_ have a thing for bigger, stronger men, but…

 It was painful. Myers didn’t exactly go fast right away though, to his credit, but still, he didn’t linger. He stayed still for a moment, only the tip of his cock inside, seemingly giving Quentin time to adjust. Only a minute or less passes before he hurriedly pushes further in.

 Quentin’s shaky hands move to his mouth in a desperate attempt to quiet himself. He wanted to scream, to yell for help, to be put on the hook, _anything_. It was agony, pure agony, the fiery rage that consumed his lower half and the jolts of electric pain that numbed him. And he did numb, somewhat at least, or perhaps he just got used to it. Myers thrusted slowly, in and out, and Quentin becomes aware of the sudden slickness of Myers’ cock. Did he use lube? Could it be just wet from being inside?

 No. It was blood.

 Quentin looked down at it for a split second before going back to looking at the sky. His eyes watered with tears, spilling over his face and down his ears. It was starting to feel better, not as painful, even a little enjoyable now, but he was _bleeding_ . He feels the hot claret liquid spill down his thighs, Myers seemingly indifferent. The pace quickens, Quentin’s cock hardening against his will, the sound of skin against skin radiating in his ears. The pain, now least of his worries, subsides with each passing moment. Quentin’s mind could only think of two things; one being the fact that, oh God oh Jesus, the others could simply wander and see them at any moment. How could he live with that? They would tell everyone. Secondly - he was enjoying this, even with the pain, even with the aspect of the fact this is _definitely_ rape. Michael looked so damn hungry, so feral, so aggressive. He was taking what he wanted, and somewhere in his damn head, he loved it, and hated himself for it.

 Myers was hunched over him now, holding his legs tight as he fucked into Quentin. With every thrust he felt Myers’ balls slap against his ass, making a sound he _prayed_ wasn’t audible over the generator which droned near them. Quentin held back ungodly noises, his eyes tightly shut and teeth stinging into his hands in an attempt to keep whatever dignity he had left. The barrels squeaked and murmured under them as Michael became more rapid in his thrusts, his breath heavy and quick underneath the mask.

 The pace suddenly comes to a crest, Michael reaching his limit. “Wait!” Quentin whispers, his voice squeaky and feminine, another jab to his already decayed self-pride. “P-please, not-”

 Too late. He feels strings of sticky, hot cum deep inside of him. Stationary now, he can feel Michael’s cock throb and twitch inside of him.

  _Jesus Christ._

 After a moment, Myers exists Quentin’s used hole. He stops to stare for a moment before putting his blood and cum soaked cock back into his jumpsuit. Quentin finally relaxes, albeit shaky and distressed, his limbs fall to their respective sides in defeat. His cock was still hard, the only part of his body or mind which was still raised and ready for more.

 Quentin looks up to Michael, who was still standing, staring.

 He was beginning to wonder what he would do when the Exit Gates whirred with their alarm. They we’re on! This had bought them enough time to complete the gens. Maybe it was a good thing, in a way, it was going to let his friends live, even if he couldn’t…

 Michael looks towards where the sound had emitted, then looks a final time at Quentin before walking in that direction.

 He was surprised. He had left him! He knew where the other Exit Gate was, too, the one aside from where Myers was headed. In a sudden and probably final (at least for a while) burst of determination, he pulls himself together, grabbing his pants, underwear and belt and hurriedly puts them on. He is jittery and unsettled to his core, unsure of what he was going to do about the blood, but single-minded driven to escape for the moment. He runs as fast as his legs could manage, and finds Claudette and Feng already there.

 “Quentin!” Claudette says with a happy grin, crouching over to her as Feng opened the gate. “Oh, good, we thought you might have been being chased. We haven’t seen you since we got here.”

 “Oh!” he says, over-enthusiastically, trying his best to sound normal. “No, I was just, doing….a gen!”

 Feng looks over, her face contorted in confusion. “That’s weird, ‘cause we did most of them.”

 He starts to sweat.

 “Well, I…”

 Jake, with the best timing of anything ever, hops over a window to join them.

 “Almost open,” says Feng. Jake crouches and stays to the right of the window, looking back through it. “He was right behind me.”

 As soon as the door opens with a loud metallic screech, Myers appears, visible through the window. All four of them run into the exit gate, Quentin being the first one out. The others taunt and point at Myers, laughing amongst each other as Quentin braves the woods as quickly as he can. The last thing he sees is that pale, emotionless mask, as if it was staring right into his soul, and it sends a shiver up his spine.

 He would have a lot of time to think about what happened, but he would make the mental note to try not to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment if you enjoy, it brightens my day! I hope you are well!


	2. Freddy / Quentin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers for this particular chapter: mentions of pedophilia and sexual abuse, rape / non con, PTSD + suicidal stuff, and potentially other triggers.
> 
> Please exercise your self care perk and turn back if you find this content upsetting!

  Quentin was wide awake for this trial. He felt good, so much better than the 'night' before (if you could call it that). His injuries had healed, his ass felt better, everything was looking up for this one. And, to add to such, he didn't dare let his mind slip far enough into thought to the point where he lost track of reality. Especially in this weird, dark, swampy place, it was easy to fall asleep, but this time he had a plan. Well, more like he had the luck of a lifetime. He was blessed enough to be going with Dwight, who insisted they all stuck together and worked as one. Joined by him, Meg and Nea, he had a good feeling about this one. As long as they were together, as long as he had someone to not disappoint, surely he wouldn't fail.

  Like last time.

* * *

  _The painful walk back to the campfire was hell. The Entity was a ruthless bastard, too. When you left the Exit Gates you could wander in any direction and reach the campfire eventually. Most of the time it wasn't even a five minute walk, but sometimes it was longer._

_Much longer._

_Quentin had ended up walking for an hour, or at least he felt like it did. The others, who had left after him, arrived before him, making him think maybe this hell was geared specifically against him after all. They all say around the fire except Jake, who was on the outskirts of the field laying down by himself, and Bill, who had the same mind. When Quentin came stumbling in, they all turned to look, but didn't say anything when he had just slumped against a tree and closed his eyes._

_He hurt. His body ached, shaky and exhausted, bloody and bruised. The Entity healed all when you died, or when you entered a new trial, and Quentin hoped to any God out there his next trial would be soon. He could feel the crusty blood on his thighs and on his hole, it was almost unbearably uncomfortable, but...there was no water, no extra clothes, nothing. You didn't need to eat or drink in this world, which meant there was no need for water or food to exist._

_Which means no hot shower, no aftercare, and he would rather_ die _then go to Claudette for help.  
_

_He wanted to cry. Why had Myers done that? He had never even heard of a killer doing such a thing, or displaying sexual desire at all. Was he just a hole? Would he have done it to someone else of it wasn't Quentin?_

_Something inside of him was_ thankful _it was him, if that was the case. He could handle it if it meant nobody else has to be hurt._

_And possibly the worst part, he had enjoyed it. At least enough to get hard. Quentin tried to rationalize it in his brain; it was just his body, just the idea, just the friction, just Myers' muscles and strength. But no. His mind kept wandering back to that scene, that memory - bent over the barrels, forced and used. And, God have mercy on his soul, he liked it. Even with the pain, some part of him loved it, and that scared him._

* * *

  He shivered thinking of it, but kept to his self-promise and focused on the task at hand. But even so, it never left his mind completely. _  
_

  "See anything yet?" Dwight asks, not even looking up from his spot on the generator. Meg, who was cleansing a totem, looked up for a moment. "Nope," she says with a happy grin, never much for showing fear. "Maybe we can just rush 'em." She finishes the totem in a few moments, then looks back to the three of them. "I'm gonna go find a gen," she gives a tiny 'salute' goodbye. Dwight was going to protest before he realized there was only three spots. He sighs and lets her go, knowing full well she was the quickest out of all of them, so if anyone would be good alone it would be her.

  The three left work on the gen in silence. Quentin's mind, for once in his life, was quiet; he had no idea how long he had been doing this, fiddling with the wires, when the humming slowly entered his head. It started bit by bit, soft and gradual, until it became loud enough that he knew exactly what was happening. "No," he says in a hushed yell. Both of the others look over to him in confusion, until it hit them, too.

  "Shit!" Dwight says, looking around furiously. They all knew they couldn't see him yet, but it didn't stop the anxiety from running rampant.

  The last thing he needed right now was this. _Him_ , of all things...!

  "I'll run him," Quentin blurts, standing from the gen to hold his head. He could resist a little longer than they could. He knew him more then they did.

  He could last longer. Maybe.

  Before either of them could protest, Quentin makes off away from the generator. His heart thumped like a rabbit in his chest, his legs burning already. He could feel himself falling asleep, in a way, but here it was different. So much different, in fact, he would prefer the way it worked before. At least back then he had some idea of what he was dealing with, with the amount of damn research he had done, but in the Entity's world, it was never consistent.

  The humming gets louder until the world flickers before his eyes. It was pale and grey, ashes fell from the white sky and his head felt heavy with sleep. He looked behind him to see Freddy, clawed hand extended and closing in for the kill. Quentin was lucky enough to have already gotten a bit of distance on him, and was praying he could keep it up. He had forgotten his flashlight at his previous trial, and he silently cursed himself for it now; it would have been so much easier to just blind his way out of this one long enough for his friends to do a few gens.

  Jumping through windows and pulling down pallets in an attempt to slow him down, Freddy still gained distance somehow. It felt like he was always only one step ahead, and one mistake would surely give him a free ticket straight to the hook...

  Well. Good luck doesn't last forever, or something like that.

  Vaulting through a window, he had miscalculated. Gravely. He trips on his on foot as it got stuck on the wall, and ends up falling to the boggy, wet ground.

  He attempted to stand to his feet in time, but it was too late, Freddy was on him. Before he knew it, a clawed hand slashes at his chest, ripping right through his shirt and into his skin. Hot blood pours out of the wounds but he doesn't care, not in that moment as he tries to run again. He was filled with adrenaline, the will to survive; the familiar pain of the hook burned like a ghost in his shoulder, he could feel it now, and it never got easier. He didn't want to get hooked so early, forcing his friends to forget their objectives to save him.

  No. He wouldn't go down this way.

  "Come on, kiddo!" Freddy's gravelly and familiar voice playfully hisses. "Don't you want to have some fun?"

  Quentin wasn't fast enough. Freddy slashes at his back as he ran, and he falls to the ground a final time.

  "Slow as ever," he sings, and Quentin can practically _see_ the shit-eating grin on his face. "But still just as cute."

  Anger flows through him. He hated Freddy, with every inch of his damn being, he hated him. He wished he was the one to have lit that fire, and cursed himself for being angry at his father for doing as such.

  Freddy kicked Quentin's body over so he could face him. Quentin looked the freak right into his eyes. He was usually timid at best, but with him? He felt bold more than he felt scared.

  "Come on, get up," Freddy uses his clawed hand to drag him to his feet. He thought for sure he was being picked up and thrown onto the hook, however, that wasn't the case. Instead, he was left on his knees, one hand holding his chest and the other on his leg.

  "Oh, such a cute face," he coos, one hand going to Quentin's head, the claws threatening to impale him at any moment. "Just as soft as when you we're little."

  Quentin was confused. Did he do this just to taunt him? No, he wouldn't let it bother him. It wouldn't...

  Freddy's other hand lingered over his belt. Quentin's breathing hitched, realizing that - oh God, oh Jesus - _it was happening again_. He cupped his already hard cock through his jeans, looking down straight into Quentin's eyes. Everything started to blur, the memories of just the other 'day' rushing back like a stream into his head. It played like a movie, and he could still feel the phantom pain of it.

  No. No, he can't do this again. He _couldn't_.

  Tears already started to well in his eyes. His hands shook and the pain from his chest and back faded away, the only thing in his head being the dread along with a nagging hope that Freddy would just hook him afterwards, or kill him right then and there. He wanted to die.

  "Oh, don't look at me like that. It's not a good look on you." He pauses and then laughs, "actually, it is. Keep it up, kid!"

  The sound of his zipper being undone grates like a plate does a fork in his mind. He closes his eyes, deciding that if this was going to happen, that he didn't want to see it. It wouldn't be as easy to remember, he hoped, rather prayed.

  Quentin feels the tip of his cock placed at his lips, and when he doesn't open right away, the claws at his neck give a little prick of encouragement. That's all it takes for him to slowly open his jaw, uselessly trying to slow down the process. The moment his lips parted, the cock pushed its way into his mouth. He moans, only out of the suddenness of the intrusion, and as such, Freddy does too. "You know, even though Nancy was my favorite, you we're a close second," he spits, his words clouding his already heavy brain. He didn't remember that, he didn't _want_ to remember that. He wasn't even entirely sure he was telling the truth.

  It was just more torture.

  Freddy, unlike Myers, didn't give Quentin much time to prepare himself. Instead, he hastily started to try and force his way into his throat. Quentin involuntarily stopped that, his throat closing and tightening, and he was thankful for his body for once in his life. Freddy was clearly displeased, his grip on Quentin's hair suddenly tight and pulling. "Come on now, sweetheart," he stops thrusting for a moment. "It would be a shame if I had to cut your throat to get in there."

  He would do that, wouldn't he? He was that much of a sick fuck.

  Quentin opens his eyes and looks up for the first time, his eyes dripping tears down his cheeks and jaw. He just wanted this to be over.

  He tries to relax himself. It would be over much sooner if Freddy just got what he wanted. But he had never done this before, not even with a toy! He had...put it _up there_ before, but never with a real person until...well. This was new to him, he wasn't sure if he was going to be able to do it.

  With a softness unlike him, Freddy goes slow. His thrusts are easy going and short, giving Quentin time to accommodate the foreign intruder. His throat doesn't close instantly, but he gags with each thrust. It makes Freddy laugh.

  It seems like his patience wears thin, as well. He begins his vigorous throat fucking just as soon as he felt like it wouldn't close on him instantly. And, sure enough, his body tried to reject it. It tried hard, but Freddy was harder.

  Breath left his lungs, not much able to come back in. He felt light headed and weak, unable to even hold his head up anymore. Two hands held it for him, using Quentin's mouth like nothing more than a hole; a cheap toy. Freddy was groaning now, and Quentin was sure he could hear him talking, but whatever he was saying was lost to him. He couldn't focus on anything. Everything was just clouded, a thick fog inside of his head blocking him from knowing anything else other than the feeling in his mouth and his lungs.

  Before he knows it and without warning, he can feel cum enter his throat. He chokes on it with whatever air is left inside him, coughing on Freddy's thick cock. When he doesn't move, Quentin is forced to swallow the surplus down, its thick, salty taste something he surely would not forget.

  Freddy stays inside until Quentin stops gagging. His limbs become loose and tired from the lack of oxygen and physical exertion. He's sweaty and feels used beyond belief, his heart more heavy than he's felt in a long time. It wasn't even this horrible with Myers, and he was left bloody then.

  "I don't know what came over me. The moment I saw you, all pretty, I knew I had to have you," he's talking nonsense, and frankly, Quentin was beyond done. He sat on his knees, shaking once again, easy prey for the hook.

  "Tell you what, kiddo. I'll give you a thirty second head start. Sound fair?" His regular hand goes to cup Quentin's chin, before slapping his cheek in a playful yet dubious way. He disappears into the swamp, and Quentin is left an emotionally broken mess and an aching jaw.

  He sits on the cold, marshy ground for a while before finally working to wake himself up. The world flashes back to normal (if you could call it that) before his eyes, and he slowly makes his way to where he dropped his toolbox. He was unsure of how to proceed; nobody had seen him, in fact he hadn't even thought of that once. If someone had, though, they would have only seen him, jaw wide open, gagging by himself. He silently wondered what that might have looked like.

  The plan doesn't change, no. He would work on these gens, outrun Freddy, and if he died in the process, fine. All he wanted to do was curl up by the campfire and cry.

  "Quentin!" Nea whisper-yells, waving from a gen, before becoming still and quiet as he came closer. "Are you...?"

  He nods, says nothing, and begins to work on his side of the gen.

  He didn't care what he looked like. He was sure he looked awful, but this time, he was too tired and wobbly to do anything about it. As he slowly comes to, he becomes aware of a discomfort in his pants.

  No. _No way_.

  He was hard. From that! He audibly sighs to himself, and Nea looks over from the other side to give him a concerning look. Quentin says nothing once more, and continues to work on the gen.

  This is it. This was **hell**. It had to be.

* * *

 

  He manages to survive the trial, against all odds. All of them did. Meg was hooked twice, Dwight once, so it was a close call, but still not close enough to not taunt a bit at the gates. Quentin joined in this time, mostly just to have someone to walk back with. Freddy looked angry, but didn't come forward to try and secure a final hit.

  It made him happy to see the freak lose.

  Freddy disappears as they all head through the final stretch of the gates, instantly waking them all up. Meg was beat up the worst out of all of them, even Quentin, and they all chattered about how they hoped Claudette was still at the campfire to patch them up.

  Instead of going to the campfire with the rest, Quentin stops at the treeline and sits behind a bundle of bushes and brush. He was beat up, that was to be sure, but he needed to cry and he needed it _now_. He would just be healed when he went to another trial, which would be when he woke up, knowing his recent luck.

  So he cried until he passed out, and _nobody_ came to his aid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment if you enjoyed, and if not, tell me how to improve! Hope you're healthy and well!
> 
> Also, don't worry too much about Quentin. Perhaps he'll find help in the place you'd least expect. :O


	3. Huntress & Quentin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No smut this chapter. Trigger warnings for PTSD, talk of sexual abuse, and other triggers. If you can't discern fiction from reality, do not read this. Please exercise self care and do not go further if you have any issues with this content, thank you.
> 
> Additional note: I do not have a beta, and rarely do I re-read my content. This will occasionally be updated as I find time to look for minor errors and tweak it.

 After he had passed out in a fit of emotion and indignation, Quentin had awoken to find himself not in trial. Instead, he laid directly where he had fallen asleep.

 At first, he was happy he wasn't going to be confronted with another crazy maniac so soon. He was even happier that Freddy hadn't attacked him during his sleep. He absent mindedly roamed his hands on his chest, and then felt his heart, just to make sure he was still living and breathing. His hands stay cupped on his chest, reveling in the feeling of thump after thump. 

 The glee of being alive didn't last long. He had forgotten that without the Entity's healing powers, his chest and back would still be bleeding and broken. He slowly lifted his blood soaked shirt to find that he had soft bandages wrapped around his entire upper body. 

 Did...the Entity do  _ that _ ?

 He sighs half in relief and half due to the stiffness of his muscles as he stood. Sleeping on the ground or on a tree wasn't ideal for the body, but he felt better knowing he wasn't the only one in perpetual suffering. He stands and stretches for a moment, gasping in pain as he had forgotten that he was still injured. He absent mindedly holds onto his chest as he heads back towards the campfire.

 The site was surprisingly empty. He had expected to see everyone sitting around, or sleeping at the very least. However, the only people around was Bill and Claudette, both sitting around the campfire in silence, and Laurie, who was seemingly asleep next to the fire. Quentin made his way over, and Claudette turns to look. She gives him a half smile, and Quentin does his best to reciprocate.

 "Morning," she says, her delicate French accent a sound for sore ears. Her voice radiated kindness and strength, something Quentin found incredibly comforting. Even though she was timid and shy, she somehow was able to play the role of team mother; always seeing the good in everything, always willing to lend a hand. 

 "Morning," Quentin replies, taking a seat on one of the wooden logs. "Or...night, or something."

 It always looked the same. The sky never changed color, unless you were lucky enough to be in a trial where it did.

 "How are you feeling?" She says, looking over with genuine concern. Her hands fiddle with her med kit. "Are your bandages too tight?"

 He looked at her in confusion - "You did this?" He said, surprised. 

 "Yes. I didn't want to bother you, since Nea said you needed alone time, but...I had to make sure you were okay."

 There is not a single atom of malice in her eyes, and it makes him feel guilty.

 "T-thank you," he says, averting his gaze to the fire. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you worry."

 "You're no less important than any of us."

 He can feel a flush come over his face. It always bothered him when people said nice things.

 "You looked like he damn near killed you, kid," Bill inputs and frankly, Quentin forgot he was there. "The hell happened?"

 A look of confusion ran over Quentin's face for only an instant before Claudette awkwardly pitched in. "Oh, Bill helped me.”

 He nods and sighs. "He just got me good."

 Bill looks up and squints, and it felt like the old man could see right through him.

 "Nobody tell you lyin' to an old man is a sin?" 

 Quentin goes to laugh, but the look on Bills face is completely serious.

 "You woulda been hooked in a second if he just ‘got you good’, kid. Why did he let you go?"

 Quentin shrugs, trying his best not to sweat and stutter. "How am  _ I  _ supposed to know?”

 Bill was one of those wise stereotypes who could see through anyone's lies or stories. The moment he had met Ace he had seen though his tricks; everyone always knew he cheated, but could never prove it. Bill did on the first game of cards they had played.

 Quentin felt naked and vulnerable, both emotionally and physically.

 Bill seemingly takes the hint that, whatever had happened, Quentin was uncomfortable. Really, the kid looked like he was about to break down into tears.

 “Just strange that we all been dyin’, yet everyone who goes with you makes it out,” he adds his final comment before shrugging and going back to staring into the fire. Claudette fidgets with her first aid kit, suspicions in her brain and questions on her lips, but too nervous to voice them.

 They sit in an awkward silence for a while. Quentin hated every moment, his head spinning, trying to find something to say to break it. 

 “I'm going for a walk,” he decides, thinking of nothing else to say, but desperate to avoid the awkwardness. “Wait,” Claudette joins as Quentin started to walk away. “The killers, they could be in the woods…”

 That was true, but they couldn't kill outside of trials, that much was clear from the amount of times they had met them in the woods. Even killers like Leatherface, a man with no self control, was forced to keep their hands off.

 “I'll be fine,” he says, appreciating her concern but not willing to stick around. He just wanted to think for a while.

 Two hands place themselves in his jean pockets. The farther you got from the campfire, the more unnaturally cold it became. It had snowed before, but like the fire, touching it didn't feel normal. It felt like it only reached a certain degrees as to not harm you, which didn't make sense; why would the Entity work harder to  _ not _ harm them? There were theories among them, but none of them felt quite right. 

 The woods twisted and creaked until the campfire's soft glow was no longer visible. The utter silence of the woods was off putting, but it was always interrupted by the distant bowl of a wolf or a deformed rabbit running between your legs. It was Claudette who theorized that whoever created this world didn't exactly get it right, and that it was constantly changing to rectify it's mistakes. It was a long shot, in Quentin's mind, as he assumed everything was probably just a dream, like how it was with Freddy before. 

 Maybe he was just in a dream in a dream. Who knows?

 He had lost of how much time had passed since he had started walking. He had become, as per usual, lost in thought. Unlike a trial, however, he felt no pressure, and little fear. As long as he didn't fall asleep, he would be fine.

 He silently wondered how long it would take for him to get back to the campfire. Sometimes you could never get away, it would just bring you right back, other times it would take hours. He had no idea how much time had passed; always dark, always foggy, this world had neither night nor day. It was always the grey between. Not like it mattered though, it looked like there was no way out until it let them go. (However, Quentin was determined to get himself  _ and _ his newly found friends out. There had to be weak spots, just like back with Freddy.) 

 Thinking about finding a way out, he fails to see where he's going. Around a thick brush of bushes and twigs, be trips over a large body which had been sitting right behind it. His hands were in his pockets, his body tumbling without his arms to protect his face. With a yelp he hits the ground, his face landing in the wet mud.

 Could  _ nothing _ at all go right for him?

 He lays for a few seconds, stunned by the fall, feeling dizzy and disoriented, adding to his recent default mood of defeated. His mind quickly snaps back, remembering that he tripped over someone.

 Fear runs through his heart, even with the knowledge that killers couldn't (or didn't?) hurt him out here.

 With a heavy heart he rolls onto his back to face whoever he had disturbed. 

 Looming over him was a humongous figure, skin scarred and bruised, muscles defined and sharp. In one of their monstrous hands was an axe, no, a  _ hatchet _ . The other was holding something he couldn't entirely make out. Fear amplifies in his heart as Quentin sees her face; it was the Huntress. Her bloodied rabbit mask was unmistakably hers, a token symbol that he could never forget, not even if he wanted to.

 His heart pounds like beating drums, faster than a wolf chasing its prey. He feels like he was going to pass out, but most importantly, that he might just pass away from this encounter. 

 “Please, no,” he whimpers, trying to crawl back, shakily so. “P-please.” He stops crawling when he realized that she was stepping forward. He felt dread in his very soul, sparking to life in memory of his previous and recent encounters with the killers.

 Why did he think this was a good idea?

 One hand goes to cover his groin, the other on the ground to keep himself even a little elevated as to watch her. “Please!” He yells this time, feeling tears in his eyes and horror in his heart. “Y-you'll break me! I can't- not again- just kill me-” he doesn't think of whether or not she has a cock, instead only of the feeling of violation and memory of the pain and humiliation. 

 The Huntress looms silently, head tilted like a confused dog. She makes no movement to grab him, no movement to spread his legs apart despite his pleads. Quentin was confused - but mentally preparing himself for anything that came.

 Nothing did.

 She squats down and Quentin thinks,  _ Oh God oh Jesus this is it _ , but still no hands move to harm him. Instead, she observes, like an alien species trying to figure out another. 

 “What are you doing?”, he asks with heavy breathing. He didn't want to push his luck. “Please...whatever you'll do, just d-do it.” 

 The woman is silent for another moment before she stands. Quentin lies still, wondering what his date was going to be; would she walk away and leave him?

 No. She walked the few feet back to where she was sitting, puts the item in her right hand down and picks something else off the ground. She walks back and Quentin was sure he was done for, but instead he watches as she squats back down and extends her hand.

 In it was a piece of wood. It was dark and mutilated wood, unnatural in all respects, but still clearly something meant to imitate wood. It was shaped like something, but he couldn't exactly tell what.

 “Do you want me to...take it?” 

 The Huntress nods.

 He takes it from her hand slowly and shakily. Once he does, the Huntress sits down where she had been squatting and crosses her legs like a child. There is a peaceful grin on her face, like she was delivering a gift to a friend.

 It made him uncomfortable.

 Quentin sits up, as well. He tries to subtly move a little bit back and he figures she doesn't notice, her smile still wide, waiting for him to observe her gift.

 He looked at the piece of wood and realized that it had been whittled into the shape of a butterfly. It was choppily done so, as if a child had done it. Quentin looks over to the spot that she was sitting originally and sees a pile of wooden pieces, some already taking shape and others clearly unstarted. 

 Was she making toys?

 “I…” he starts, unsure of what to say. He had never seen a killer be friendly as such, and never had he received a gift from one. “Is this...for me?”

 She nods vigorously.

 “It's...really pretty. I-I like it.”

 He observes her for her reaction.

 She nodded up and down, seemingly pleased. One of her hands extends to pet Quentin's head, something that made him flinch. He moved out of her reach and sees her frown, and she crawls forward to sit on her knees right in front of him. She pets his head like you would let a dog, and he feels strangely fine with it. “Little,” she mumbles, her voice lower than most men he had ever met. “Little.”

 Was she calling him  _ little?  _ He feels a hot flush cross his face. Most people looked little in comparison to her, but he knew he was likely one of the smaller ones.

 “Why are you sad?” She says once she looks at his face. She stopped petting his head only to take his jaw into her strong hand and move his head up and down, inspecting. 

 “I'm not hurt” he tries to convince her, his body stiff with fear. 

 “No. You cry. You hurt.” 

 He hadn't realized, but a stray year had fallen down his cheek.

 Quentin was unsure what to say to get her away. He felt fearful of her, of course, she  _ was  _ a dangerous killer, but... somehow he felt safe.

 “I’m fine” he repeats once more, softer this time. He was beginning to feel less and less afraid of her as her hands caressed him, feeling him for injuries and petting his hair gently. It felt like the Huntress he was seeing here was nothing more than the kinder double of the real one, whom he had known to be one of the scariest to meet in a trial; unforgiving, hateful and brutal, while this one was kind, gentle and soft. 

 “Why do you cover your legs?”

 Quentin looks at her in confusion. He wasn’t…

 Absentmindedly, he had covered his groin again. His legs we’re also held tight together, something he didn’t notice he was still doing.

 “I’m sorry,” he states, taking his hand away from himself but not opening his legs.

 “Someone hurt you?” One of her hands goes and touches his downstairs, and he yelps once more. She takes her hand away and observes his reaction, his body quivering suddenly, his hands unable to sit still. 

 He looks at her with a renewed fear in his eyes.

 “I’m sorry,” she responds softly. “I hurt you.”

 “No, you didn’t - but you, you know, you can’t touch someone there, without them s-saying so. Did you know that?”

 She shakes her head ‘no’. 

 Quentin feels horrible. This woman didn’t know such a thing; something you are taught as a child, something everyone in their right mind knows. Was she lying? Was she faking it all, only to pretend she’s not some horrible murderer, only to catch him by surprise when she kills him right then and there?

 “Who touch you there?” The Huntress asks, no hint of malice for Quentin in her voice. She sounded like someone who had been locked up in a box and knew of nothing. “Who made you hurt?”

 Quentin looks away from her.

 “I…”

 Her arms wrap around him. It was a hug, of some sort. It felt like she was completely devouring him in her body, protective and warm. In a weird sort of way, he felt safer here, in her arms, then he did by the campfire or with the others; there was a motherly passion inside of her, and it radiated in her touches and in her actions, however misguided some of them were. 

 “Hurting little one bad. Only hurt if we have to.” 

 He started to weep, uncontrollably, wholly falling apart in the arms of someone who had ended his life countless of times. He was in desperate need of any positive touch, any affectionate words. In his coping, he had forgotten how much everything just  _ hurt _ ; everything was falling apart around him and everyone else was too caught up in it to throw him a line, not like he would even be as selfish to ask.

 “ _ Hey _ !” 

 A sudden scream awakes Quentin from drowning in her arms. He feels the Huntress’ mask grind against his forehead as she looks over to the sound, and watches as a bright light shines through the wood. He hears the clamoring of running footsteps and feels as the woman lets go of him to grab her hatchet. She grunts and hisses as the bright light blinds her, and he watches in heartache as she runs away, through the fog, until she is no longer visible.

 “Jesus, Quentin! Are you alright, mate?” 

 It was David.

 He puts his arm around Quentin’s to lift him to his feet. “Jesus Christ, what're you doin’ out here?” 

 Quentin, whose face was still wet with tears, tears away to wipe them off on his jacket. “W-was out for a walk.”

 “That’ll teach ya’. Fuckin’ maniacs everywhere.”

 Quentin picked up the butterfly he was given and shoves it in his pocket while David was turned away. He looks over and sees her whittled wood pieces still laying on the ground, his heart full of grief. He stares at them in silence.

 “Where’s everyone else” Quentin tries to ask after a moment as they begin to walk. He wanted to quickly change the subject before the man had any time to ask what the hell had happened.

  “Fucking shit, mate. All of em, dead.”

 “Who?”

 “Fuck. Let’s see, I was with...Ace, Adam and Jeff. All of ‘em, fucking dead. To some teleporting cunt.”

 “The Nurse,” he says. He had forgotten that David had yet to meet all of them, luckily.

 “For a fucking Nurse, she fuckin’ sure did a lot of harm.”

 The rest of the walk in taken in silence. Quentin didn’t ask anymore, and David didn’t either. When they get back to the campfire, David runs straight over to tell what had happened. Nobody else had returned, not his teammates, and not the others. Claudette, Bill and now Laurie all sat by the fire, talking about something he didn’t want to know about. Quentin had the mind to stay in the outskirts and fall asleep, but if he was going to take that chance, he was going to do it by the fire. It had been too long of a stressful day, and he needed to, at the very least, close his eyes.

 He follows behind David to the fire, and lays down somewhat away from everyone, and closes his eyes. He drowns out their conversation of death and despair, and thinks of his own in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. More smut is on its way, just wanted to explore the plot + Quentin's inner mind and The Huntress as a mother figure.


	4. Leatherface / Quentin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers include: rape / non con, blood, violent sex, death, potentially others. 
> 
> Please exercise your self care perk and TURN BACK if you are disgusted by such content!

Quentin had awoken with a newfound hopefulness. He indeed did fall asleep, once more in a fit of emotion, this time coupled with heavy suicidal thoughts. But he pushed them to the back of his head; he had woken feeling decent and, surprisingly, unharmed by Freddy. (He was beginning to wonder if Freddy could hurt him here. If he could, he certainly wasn't doing so. He made a mental note to investigate that later.) He did, however, awake to find himself in a trial.  
  
But it was fine. Quentin was fueled by determination to see himself and his friends live.  
  
He found himself alone this time. Usually, you were joined near someone at the very least, however this time there was nobody even in sight. It made him somewhat chilled to be all alone, but he was rested and balanced, ready to take this W back and his friends with him.   
  
He hops onto the nearest generator. He gets to work right away, drowning out all the noise of the world around him, only listening for footsteps or a faint beating heart. He was focused one hundred and ten percent.   
The generator wasn't even halfway completed before he heard the first scream.   
  
It was loud and thunderous, much too close for his liking. It was submerged by the racket of a chainsaw, loud and boisterous, followed by the grunts and groans of an unknown killer. He didn't look up from the generator, too focused on his task and unwilling to potentially run into the killer just yet. He would finish the gen, and then if his teammate was still on the hook (which he didn't even see if he got down, call it a lucky guess) he would get him off and distract until they could get away.   
  
That was, until the next scream. This one was bloodcurdling. A woman, surely. This time, it was closer than the last. Whoever it was, it sounded like she was caught trying to get the other off the hook. He sighed to himself. Quentin's determination and high hopes we're beginning to fade. He hears a third scream - the same woman, he assumes - as she's most likely hooked as such.

He looks up this time. In the distance, he could hardly see where she was. He couldn't make it out, but she looked like Kate, maybe Meg...not like it mattered. Though, his anxiety rises when he cannot spot the killer. Was it the Wraith? No, he doesn't have a chainsaw…

That left two options. Billy, or Leatherface. And, oh God oh Jesus, he prayed it was Billy.

Leatherface was one of them that terrified Quentin to his core, the others being the Huntress (even with what happened, he still felt fear. He knew she wouldn't go easy on him in a trial), Myers (even more now) and the hag. He never showed empathy or compassion to anyone or anything. More often than not, he would put that chainsaw right through your chest right after you've been hooked once or twice. He was terrifying in all respects, someone who you would _never_ want to fight. He was just a brute, big and strong, hungry to kill anyway he could get you.

While looking for the killer, he had messed up on the generator. It exploded with a bang and smoke, sending Quentin falling backwards.

He can practically feel the hook in his chest now.

Quickly he makes his way to the right, hiding behind half standing brick walls and piles of junk. Yes, he had made good progress on the generator, but it wasn't in vain; his spirits raised as he came up with a new plan. That surely would have got the killers attention, leading him to check out the area while he saved his friends.

Genius. Ish.

He crouched his way around, taking a wide angle, his hooked friend no longer in his sight. He wanted to give himself enough space so that if the killer did indeed go to check the area, he wouldn't be in it. It was close, after all. But he had to be quick. The next logical place to check would be the hook.

Once he felt as if he was far enough away, Quentin broke into a sprint. He rounded corners and went slower on windows, making sure he was being as quiet as possible, being careful he didn't trip over himself. Suddenly, he becomes aware of a moaning. Tiny whimpers, sniffles and groans of pain. Quentin stops in his tracks and listens, trying to find the direction they were coming from. He steps over another window, and sees a pair of feet barely visible ahead of him. Crouching down he makes his way forward, and turns the corner.

It was Dwight. He must have been the one who he heard in the beginning.

“Dwight!” Quentin exclaims, going to help his friend to his feet. “Jesus, what happened?”

“Leatherface” is all he says. Quentin's heart pounds in his chest as he does his best to help him up. Dwight's back was soaked in blood, a large rip in his clothing and an all too clear chainsaw wound showing through.

He decides this world was most definitely against him specifically.

Quentin does his best to try and patch Dwight up. Claudette was the healer, hell even Jake did a bang job in a clutch. But it was only him, and although he tried his best, it wasn't very good. He had limited bandages and dear _God_ was Dwight fucked. The best he could do was try to stop some of the bleeding, which wasn't going to work. The wound was deep, too deep to just push on his back and wait for it to slow.

Dwight was too nervous to tell him what a horrible job he had done. “Thank you,” he goes with, shivering from pain, but too antsy to finish the trial to wait and watch the ametur theactrics any longer. “Um, who's going to get Kate? Me or you?”

“I'll do it. You're already hurt pretty bad.”

Dwight nods in agreement. Quentin was better at these sort of things away - he was good bait, could pallet loop for a million years, a feat he learned in his first trial where Meg and Nea had been his teachers. As long as someone else's well being and survival we're on the line he could run around for ages, but it felt like when it was only his own he failed miserably.

“I'll uh...I'll go back this way to work on your gen. Come back when you lose him.”

Quenin nods. Leatherfuck would never even know he was there.

He watches as Dwight limps his way back, slowly and carefully, trying to be as silent as he could. Much that did, however; the trail of blood was probably going to be his downfall.

Quentin breathes in and out. He prepares himself for what surely might be a chase.

He turns the corner and peeks around. Kate was on the hook still, her body limp as the Entity's spidery legs started to take their corporeal form. She looks up at him with a dribble of blood on her chin, her lips forming into a half smile when she realizes that he was coming to save her.

He lifts her off the hook, and points to where Dwight had been going. By now, he was aware of the fact that the killer would surely be on his way back to the hook to check and see if she was still there - and, low and behold, there he was.

Leatherface was insanely huge. Muscles were clearly visible, he lifted that damn chainsaw above his head like it was nothing more than a ragdoll. The fact that he was also on the bigger side was deceiving, one might look at him and assume he was nothing but fat. But they would be wrong. Quentin had known from hard experience of being carried hook to hook by Leatherface that he was one of the toughest of any killer; smartest, maybe not, but definitely strong enough to bend you over his knee and snap you in half with no effort.

He revs up his chainsaw and holds it over his head. He thought for sure he was going for Kate, but instead he dives dowards Quentin. As he runs he sees Kate make haste for Dwight, and it makes him feel good to know that he saved her and that she would be okay for the moment. He feels invigorated, ready to juke the hell out of this fool.

His chainsaw roars but Quentin felt no fear. He runs, twisting and turning, zigging and zagging, and Leatherface follows suit. Right before he was going to be hit, he dropped over a pallet and looked behind him to see the angry face of his attacker.

That would slow him down, at least he could have a head start now.

Typically after being palleted, killers would chase other prey. He had two injured survivors that were still in the relative same area of the hook, an easy find, but Leatherface didn't give in. He revved up his chainsaw once more, but Quentin saw another pallet in sight. He runs towards it and waits for his stalker to catch up. He stops his chainsaw and moves towards him, but doesn't step into the pallet zone. Quentin drops it and slides over it, and pretends to run in that direction.

He sees Leatherface go around the corner, presumably to catch him at the other side. He chuckles to himself as he slides back, but it was short lived.

Leatherface had seen this trick time and time again. He wasn't falling for it any longer. In an instant Quentin's heart sank as he was forced down on the dropped pallet. The wood dug into his back as he was held in place, struggling under the pressure of only one of his hands.

The only thing running through his head was Myers, and what came after he was forced down similarly.

His heart pounded like a broken clock, ticking uncontrollably. The hand around his neck tightened and Quentin could feel the air leave his lungs. He was stuck at an unpleasant angle, unable to see what his assailant was doing, but knew all too well when he heard his chainsaw drop to the ground.

_‘God, if you're out there…’_

With one arm he lifts his yellow apron off his body, revealing a white collared shirt and a pair of worn jeans. Quentin can hear his belt being undone, only barely over the sound of blood pounding in his ears.

Just as he's sure he was going to pass out, the hand on his neck disappears. Quentin gasps for air, the cold breeze sending a shiver down his spine. He sits there for a moment, regaining his breath and strength before sitting up to see the other. The man had been struggling with his belt and, with two hands, was finally getting it off. Quentin froze, horrified to his core, dread in his soul for what was to come. In a desperate attempt he tried to move back, to fall onto the other side of the pallet, to run to safety perhaps, but he was too slow. Leatherface grabbed him tight and dragged him back until his ass was touching his groin.

One hand stays to guard Quentin this time. Leatherface pulls down his jeans and slides off his underwear to reveal a massive, hard cock. It was the biggest he had ever seen. This man might as well have been a giant for its size, lengthy and thick, throbbing veins and head dripping with precum. In all his life, in all the videos he had seen, he wasn't entirely sure if he had come across anyone who had larger.

And, frankly, it was fucking terrifying.

There was no way that would fit in him. It would rip him open, kill him, to be completely honest; Quentin was filled with the most intense fear he had ever experienced in his entire existence. Everything up to this point was doable; even with Myers, even with Freddy. But this was in another realm, an entirely new universe.

He was scared, and he genuinely didn't think he could make it through this in one piece.

The man rips at Quentin's jeans. For once, Quentin fought back, his arms minuscule under the massive strength of the other. He began to cry, beg, barter and plead that he _didn't do this_ , that it wasn't worth it, that he could make him feel good if he would just stop.

But he didn't.

He ripped Quentin's pants off without a care, and tore his underwear in half for easy access. Quentin tried to close his legs, to struggle, but it was a fight in vain. Two large hands spread Quentin open, the cold air hitting his hole only for a few seconds before a hot cock took its place.

He didn't go slow, and he didn't take it easy.

Instantly he tried to force his way in. The head of his massive cock was barely able to get by the rim, and from there it was dry and unsavory for the both of them. Quentin held hands to his mouth, muffled cries threatening to turn into desperate pleads for death. Even with the uncomfortable circumstances, Leatherface didn't quit. He bucked his hips in and out, and it wasn't a moment later that the blood had come. Quentin had remembered this feeling, but this time, it was twenty times more unbearable. The slick, hot liquid covered his cock and made for easier access inside, to which the killer took and took quickly. It hadn't even been a minute and he was already forcing himself as far as he could go into Quentin's abused hole.

He couldn't take it. He screamed.

It was the single handedly most painful experience of his life. He felt vulnerable, like a piece of dough stretched too thin, ready to rip into pieces at a moment's notice. The killer was brutal, his cock shoving in and out at a horrendously intense pace. Blood spurted and dripped down his cock and onto the ground beneath them, the sound of skin slapping against skill filling the air. Quentin didn't care who heard, his lungs screamed in pain as loud as he possibly could. He was sure everyone could hear it, but it didn't matter. He wept and shook violently, pleads exiting his lips in small whispers as he caught his breath. His hands hung onto the pallet below him, splinters making their way inside of his skin. Leatherface grunted and groaned, so terribly loud that if nobody had heard his screaming they would surely hear him.

Quentin loses track of time. Every passing second was agony, fire coursing through his veins, hole stretched beyond its capacity. His huge cock slams in and out, no rhyme or rhythm to his ruthless fucking, only the carnal need to breed. His own cock flopped up and down, throbbing and abandoned, not even a single touch from the other. He had gotten hard, once again, something he becomes aware of during. Every damn thrust from his cock hit his prostate, so violently that it made his whole body quiver and shake. Despite the pain and agony, despite the situation, he wanted it. He _needed_ it. He needed to be bred by these cruel predators, to be used and thrown away. Thoughts enter his head, fogging his mind, and soon enough Quentin is unsure of whether or not they are his at all.

Without being touched, he found himself close to his own end. For the first time since he had gotten to this hell world, he was going to come, and it was going to be while he was being violated.

He hated himself.

One shaky hand reaches down to jerk himself off. Leatherface either doesn't see or is too caught up in his own pleasure to care. Quickly, he strokes himself up and down, focusing on the pleasure in his own cock rather than the pain in his body. He closes his eyes and homes in on it, and within moments, he comes.

The killer groans particularly loud, perhaps from Quentin's hole tightening as he came. The pace quickened to a crest, as if it could have gotten any faster, and suddenly he feels a thick, hot liquid spray deep inside of him.

They had both cum, but all of the shame laid purely on Quentin's heart.

Quentin's body goes limp. He doesn't move or fight, he barely even sees through his eyes as his mind was empty. After what feels like an eternity, the humongous man throws him over his shoulder, and places his half naked body onto  nearby hook.

He barely screams, and doesn't fight when the Entity's sharp limbs come to take him right away. As he's lifted into the sky, his vision goes dark and the last thing he sees is Leatherface picking up his chainsaw, and a crouching body hiding in the near distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so tired T_T I haven't slept in over a day at this point (gestures to Quentin vaguely) like, I get it, buddy. It's rough. Kind of have been feeling really angry lately and decided to take it out on our boy. Try not to worry about our hero too much though, something tells me its just going to get worse before it gets better.
> 
> All in all, thank you for reading, and more is surely to come.


	5. Freddy / Quentin (Reprise)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Entity has one last thing in store for Quentin before he can return to his reguarly scheduled hell world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: pedophilia mentions, rape, other shit. I'm not going to say "use self care blah blah blah" anymore because if you can't read tags then it's not my fault. I'm not your mom. Hope you enjoy though! More to come soon, just busy and really tired.

When you died in this world, you never stayed gone for too long. Quentin, however, was gone for the longest any of them had ever seen. 

He was gone for several trials. Four had gone by before he appeared in total, leaving the rest of the survivors wondering if he would come back at all. The campfire was surrounded by speculation and theories, anxiety and worry that they too would disappear if they died too many times over. 

Claudette was the only one who asked into the circumstances. “What happened to him? Did anyone see how he died?”

Dwight and Kate shook their heads. They weren’t in the area at the time, both of them trying to patch each other up and do the generator. Their heads turn towards Nea, who was uncharacteristically silent, looking into the campfire with empty eyes, lost in thought.

* * *

 

Not once had anyone remembered what had happened as the Entity took them. The longest someone had been conscious was David, who was remembered going into the cloud of smoke of blackness before waking up wandering through the woods and into the campsite. That wasn’t uncommon, you would come back to the campfire a number of ways; wandering back like David had that night, other times you would appear from the ground or from the sky in a twist of spider-like limbs that delivered you like a package. But one thing was always the same - you didn’t remember what had happened to you, you never remained aware for long.

Quentin had been breaking a lot of these boundaries lately.

Instead of waking up at the campfire, concerned friends around him helping him to his feet, he awoke in a trial. Or so he thought. The world around him was barren, black and foggy, trees and broken down walls of stone and brick scattered around the place. He assumed he was already thrown back into another trial, another game of cat and mouse of which he was surely going to be…

Well. You know.

Walking around he could tell this was different. There was nothing on the horizon, no landmark or even border to this world. It looked like it was flat, repeating every so often so that he could continue to walk. It was so foggy he could barely see where he was going - though, not like he needed to. His time of wandering would soon come to an end. And, surprisingly, he felt no fear, or much of anything for that matter.

Only sadness.

A figure appears in the darkness. Someone familiar, someone from memory. Someone Quentin could never forget.

“Miss me?”

He looked towards the shadowy figure. They was masked in a layer of fog and smoke, the red of their sweater barely visible through it. A mangled and scarred face made its way through the fog, a mischievous and evil grin sprawled across his repulsive face.

Quentin stopped and stood in place, eyes heavy and light headed, not feeling particularly threatened, even though he had plenty of ideas of what could come to pass. He didn’t want to fight it anymore. There was not a molecule of determination in his entire being, no energy, nothing. He felt empty, as if he had been hollowed out and was nothing but a shell.

Wet extremities appeared from the ground with a meaty squashing, making their way to Quentin. The pest-like arms grab his limbs, holding them tightly and spreading them apart. A collection of the arms make their way to his back, holding him up off the ground at waist height. 

It was clear to him what it was doing, and in that moment, feeling started to flow through him once more.

“Please no,” he cries out as Freddy circles him painfully slowly. Claws scape against his skin, drawing blood, touching against the inhuman limbs and making a disgusting meaty sound. The very air itself swirled in his lungs, making his body feel heavy and thick, almost unable to breathe in the toxic fumes along side with the expectation of what was to come. But even so, he doesn't fight. He had no energy to do anything, not even to cry.

“I don't know what it is,” Freddy's whisper echoes in this seemingly empty realm. “But I can't control myself. You're irresistible. Always have been, but this is different.” He makes his way around Quentin's contorted body, and watches as a few of the tentacles rip open his pants to reveal his hole as if it was merely a wrapper on a cheap piece of chocolate. Freddy chuckles, a claw going to touch it. Quentin's breath hitches in his throat in newfound horror, his body contracting as far away from the cold metal as it could; but it was a fruitless effort. The limbs grabbed him tighter, holding him still for whatever acts of violation and violence Freddy felt like pursuing. It felt like there were no rules here, and a creeping thought in Quentin's mind told him he wouldn't come out of this alive.

Freddy plays with Quentin's hole, using both a claw and a finger. It was a conflicting ordeal - on one hand, his claw was sharp and imposing, and if he wasn't already cut he was sure he would be. On the other...it felt good.  _ Too good. _ This man was the definition of evil, of impurity, a prime example of why Hell was created in the first place. The Devil himself cringed in disgust at this man and all his wickedness. 

Anyone who would do such a hideous and unforgivable act to not just one, but multiple children should never receive pleasure of any sort.

But Quentin was in no space to help himself. He could practically hear Freddy's disgusting smile wide across his face as he toyed with him. One finger rimmed his hole, then entered, then two. Before he knew it he was being scissored open and Jesus... it felt incredible. Quentin was horrified at himself for loving every painful second of it. He wanted nothing more than to die, to have these putrid limbs engulf him and send him into whatever was after death. Maybe he had died, after all, and this was his Hell - his punishment. The last thing he wanted was for this freak to be touching him, but his body disagreed. His cock had flared to life quickly, twitching in his jeans and spilling precum from it's tender head.

Freddy laughed, and as much as he wanted to, Quentin couldn't cry.

He was being finger fucked now. Two digits pressed deep inside of him, and up to this point he had been as silent as he could. When his hand reached his prostate, however, his body shook and he wailed.

“Gotcha” Freddy growls, proceeding to hit that spot over and over again. Quentin could do nothing. His hands were occupied, nothing for him to stifle his sounds of pleasure except for his lips, which wasn't nearly enough. 

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” Quentin repeated, his head empty aside from the feeling in his body. He couldn't think, he couldn't react, he could only tremble and quiver underneath the ruthless assault.

Suddenly, it stops. The fingers remove themselves from his hole, and Quentin realizes he had been thrusting down on them.

He feels a shame spill into his core.

“Don't worry, we'll fill you in no time.” Freddy's cock is used in replacement. The head is placed at his rim, puckered hole already opening with the slightest of pushes. And push he did. Although, for the first time, he didn't feel pain; it burned, sure, but it didn't hurt. It was…

_ Good _ .

His mind surged with feelings. Shame, anger, sadness and more all ran through his head at record speeds. He remembers what this man did to him, to  _ Nancy _ , to countless others - and now he was getting fucked by him, by this evil creature. And part of him liked it. The way his hole stretched around his cock, the way he could hit that spot so well...it was awful. It felt worse than anything he could have ever imagined, but his body betrayed him. 

Part of him wondered if he would even stop it if he wasn't held down.

Freddy grunts and groans as he fucked him. He's saying something but he can't comprehend what it is. Nothing means anything anymore, his mind too busy dealing with the situation, the mental pain and physical pleasure plastered into one giant mess. Quentin whines and begs for more, not a single plead for it to stop escaping his lips any longer. He had no fight. Not an ounce of determination to live or to push this freak away was left.

A clawed hand grips Quentin's throat. It's sharp edges pierce skin but it doesn't matter anymore. It chokes him, makes him bleed and it's not long before his entire neck feels hot and wet. This would have killed a normal man in a normal world, but yet he breathed, and yet his heart thumped like a bomb in his chest. 

“So tight” Freddy grunts, clearly enjoying himself. “My little toy, always ready to be used.”

He cums. No touches, not even as much as an accidental brush, he had cum in his pants. His own cock twitched and throbbed as he spills his seed unto himself, a wet mark visible though his dirtied blue jeans.

Freddy doesn't stop. He wasn't ready yet. Ruthlessly he pounded into him, balls slapping against his ass and hand still clawing into his flesh, Quentin shook. He was overly sensitive, and with every thrust that spot was hit inside of him. It was torturous, and he cums again within moments. He twitched violently, his mind full of nothing but static, overly stimulated and exhausted beyond measure. But there was nothing he could do - he had to wait until Freddy came, as well. And after a minute (which felt more like a century), he did.

The last thing he could remember was feeling Freddy's warm spill deep inside of him. His eyes went dark, vision blurred, a haunting message left for his memory to recall as he prodded through his shame, waking up on the cold, hard ground of another trial;

“ _ You're mine.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I get an F in chat?


	6. Nea & Quentin, The Doctor / Quentin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nea is conflicted on what to do with what she's seen, and a certain Doctor catches Quentin before he's home free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: PTSD stuff, sexual abuse / memories of sexual abuse, feelings of helplessness, rape/non con, torture-ish, etc etc
> 
> The last time I wrote this much for a single chapter is when i wrote Hamilton. That's...not my greatest achievement. (For the record: this chapter is over 5K words. I know that's not a lot to other people, but I write these within only a day or two and mostly on my phone.)  
> Anyway, chapter is mostly plot, but with some new NSFW at the end. Zap, zap. I also made some fan-art for this chapter (yes, I'm *that* kind of pretentious asshole) which you can see [here.](https://www.deviantart.com/voidsi/art/chapter-6-787272209) Its SFW.

Nea had found herself conflicted. What she had seen, what she had heard: it haunted her.

It started with Freddy.

She had been working on gen after gen before she had seen him, walking quietly towards where she was stationed. Quentin looked tired all the time, that was to be sure, but this was a new level of tired. He looked exhausted; absent, empty. He looked as if an old cop who just witnessed another gruesome murder, too much used to them to be anything but emotionless.

It was a specific correlation, but he really did look like straight shit. And he was acting terribly strange.

Truthfully, she didn’t think much into it. She didn’t know alot about Quentin (nobody really did), and the little she did know was that he had dealt with Freddy before all of this. She had just assumed he had been being chased for a while, or maybe got hit. She hadn’t seen Freddy at all that trial yet, anyway.

In a sense, it was her way of pushing away what she had theorized to the back of her head.

When she got back to the campfire that night, she had to pull Claudette back away from the group. The woman had instantly gotten up to go and check on him, but it was clear to herself at least that he needed to be alone. “Just a rough trial, I think,” Nea mentions with a half grin. “Best to leave him alone for a bit.”

Claudette, although reluctantly, did so. She found her way back to the logs around the fire and went back to chatting with the group.

Then came Leatherface.

Nea had wanted a quiet trial. She loved the chase, especially when she cheekily hid in plain sight and watched as a befuddled killer walked off in a random direction defeated, but she too was more tired than usual. She felt like Quentin looked, truthfully, and was ready to just have this one done and over with.

And it _had_ been going well. She had gotten a generator almost done by herself, and rather quickly. Trouble only started when she heard the startled yell of Kate, who she had started with, who went off to find another generator to work on as per Nea’s suggestion. (It was better, in her opinion, if they split and all worked on different ones. That way if found by the killer, only one of them would have to run, instead of wasting more time and having the killer gen-camp.) She sighed but reminded herself this didn’t mean a loss. She did, afterall, hear a chainsaw; and if you got hit with one of those, you were on the ground faster than you’d ever been before.

Ever the occasional team player, she went to grab Kate, only to find Dwight already there. She could see everything clearly as she crouched behind a tall stack of car parts and tires, waiting patiently to see if Dwight would succeed.

He didn't, of course.

He was hit down with the chainsaw as well, from around the corner. It was too bad, too. It was still early game and already two of her friends were down. However, just as the killer, who she had seen to be Leatherface went to grab Dwight, a distant explosion caught his attention instead. He left Dwight's mangled and bloody body laying on the cold, hard ground to bleed out until either someone helped him or he died.

Nea wanted to grab Kate but instead turned back to the generator. It was almost done, if she could pop it while he wasn't paying attention then maybe she would be in the clear. It would only take a few moments, not enough time for her to reach “stage 2” as they called it, and not nearly enough time for Dwight to die. In fact, it might just be better that he was down; Leatherface would need to find where he crawled off to, buying them all more time.

She works on the generator as quickly as she can. She can see over in their direction somewhat, but not enough to see Kate's hook or where Dwight went down.

It's only when she sees Quentin run in the direction of the hook and never come back does she grow concerned.

She had seen Kate running off a few seconds later, but not Quentin with her. Then again, she didn't hear him scream either. Was he simply looping the idiot? A smile crossed her face for a moment. Quentin was one of the slower among them, but he tried his best. Nea had taught him how to loop back when he first arrived in the Fog, and although he never quite perfected it to her knowledge, she was happy to assume he was doing it successfully.

Until a blood curdling scream fills the air.

It was different than a scream of being hit. There was no chainsaw noise, and even though she knew he didn't only have that to attack with, it sounded like he was being torn into pieces with it. Whatever was happening, he was in pain.

She jumped off the generator instantly and ran in his direction. If he was down, maybe she could grab Leatherface's attention and run him around a bit, enough time for Quentin to crawl away or for the others to help him. Hell, maybe he could even manage to get up.

She ran to her spot from moments before and looked out into the patch of open space. Instantly, her heart sank and her body froze more solid than ice.

The killer held Quentin’s legs tightly on a pallet. He couldn't see their faces, either of them, and truthfully she didn't want to. The sound of Quentin's screaming and begging filled her ears and her soul, the slapping of skin a sound so foul, so horrendously painful if she hadn't been so shocked she would have vomited. The only part of her that moved was whatever was shaking in fear and anger, disgust pumping through her veins, heartbeat ticking faster and faster with each passing moment.

Her friend was in danger. A mere boy, maybe eighteen or so, though he looked older due to his sleepless habits based in fear.

Young. Young like she was.

Her mind flashed images in her head faster than she could comprehend them. Feelings of shame, helplessness and anger filled every fiber of her being. Memories, sounds and scenarios played in her head as she continued to watch the onslaught, unable to move, unable to think. Tears flowed through her eyes and down her cheeks rapidly, remembering things she had long forgotten. Her pleads and begs of mercy, loss of control. Figures stand above her and take her as they want. All men, all American, having fun with their new Swedish toy; only a foreign hole with an accent they haven't heard before, something that was seemingly owed was taken. Her clothes, maybe. Her nationality, perhaps. Or maybe she was just the weakest they could find and they wanted to take but didn't want to give. She remembers the slurs, the names they called her, what she was to them. A strong, independent woman, who had never experienced violent men outside of her father shown their true nature just two weeks into American life. The feeling of being so out of control, so weak and fragile, a _thing_ instead of a person, just a hole that was as good as any other - it made her feel something that no word or phrase could ever explain.

She felt it again as she watched, sobbing and fearful, unable to help. Her knees gave way below her and she fell to the ground, her body shaking uncontrollably. A hand goes to cover her mouth, sounds escaping her lips that made her horrified that he would hear and come to violate her as well. All she wanted to do was run behind him and stab him, beat him to death with her bare fists until her knuckles revealed bones and tissue, and hold Quentin until he forgot.

Nobody should ever have to go through such a violent, degrading trauma.

And yet, she could do nothing. Her body wouldn't move.

The minutes feel like hours and eventually Quentin stops screaming. She thinks he's dead before she sees his hands reach down to touch his own cock, shaking violently as he himself finds a sliver of pleasure in his assault. Though from experience, she knows it feels worse than any torture in the world, to come like that.

The onslaught seemingly crawls to a halt. There is a pause and Quentin goes limp on the pallet, chest rising and falling but hitched and quick. The assailant picks his pants up, does his belt and carries a neutralised Quentin to the same hook he had rescued Kate from. The look on his face haunts her; it was full of sorrow, so much that only seeing such a look would explain. His thighs and legs are covered in blood and come, cock soft but stomach stained with his own seed. Perhaps it is an act of mercy that the Entity comes and takes him, leaving him no fighting chance as he's lifted into the sky.

She remains there, in that spot, collapsed and beyond broken. Her face goes blank and she thinks until she's found, and doesn't fight either when placed to die on the hook.

* * *

 

Several trials had gone by. Nobody had seen Quentin, not in trial, in the woods and not by the campfire. It was like ever since he had been taken by the Entity that night, he simply ceased to exist.

Questions and concerns poured into her ears. The three of them we're the last ones to see him, but none of them had answers. Nea stayed silent for the most part, anger at herself and at her friends clouding her mind, but it wasn't uncharacteristic. She got like this sometimes, and soon enough, they all stopped asking.

She wanted to tell. She wanted to tell everyone what had happened, but she couldn't. She _wouldn't._ If or when Quentin returned, the last thing he would need is people pitying him and treating him like he was weak. She knew how it felt and refused to ever embark such a horrible feeling on anybody else, for as long as she lived.

Even with such, trials came and went. Nea had found herself more and more exhausted with each and every single one. Her mind felt foggy, like the world around them, strained in unnatural and unholy grounds such as this world. She realizes that it's been this way for a long time, since the moment she got there in fact. She realizes a lot of things she had buried deep inside.

She wakes up in another. A meat processing plant, one of her least favorites. Ones like these held little good places to hide or to blend in, there were just too many damn passages and openings for the killer to come from. More often than not, you found yourself cornered or caught by surprise.

She didn't need this right now. At the very least, she had a party starter for a quick getaway.

Nea makes way in a random direction. First floor was decent, the killer stayed downstairs more often than not, but it was a gamble. Here there really was no place to hide, whereas below you might get lucky and find one.

She set straight away to a generator. Her hands moved as quickly as she could, trying not to fuck up but also more than ready to just be done. She continually looks all around, straining her neck to peer beyond the walls and make sure that nobody was coming to give her away.

And that's when she sees him - that tired, mistreated boy, crouching slowly past her like of sight.

Nea had never sprinted so damn fast. She didn't even realize she had.

“ _Quentin!_ ”, she yelled, and practically jumped towards him. Her self control kicked in last moment as her arms outstretched for just a split second to give him a hug. She thought better of it, and decided to keep her distance. He probably didn't want to be touched right now, and she didn't want to seem out of character and make him paranoid.

“O-oh,” he says quietly, somewhat startled. “Hi.”

“Jesus Christ, we didn't know if you were coming back, dude!” She tried to calm herself down but truthfully, she was just too relieved to see him alive. “You've been gone for a really long time.”

“Really?” Is all he says. He offers nothing more and instead looks around, a bead of sweat dripping down his brow.

He...really didn't look good, even by _his_ standards.

“Come on, there's a gen over here” she turns around and waves her hand for him to follow. “Haven't seen the killer yet.”

She starts to walk forward, but looks back to see he isn't following.

“I was, you know, I-I think I'll just go find another one. Just so we can get more than one started.”

The distant pop of a generator is heard, and they both look in it's direction.

“Well, the killer will be going towards that, so over here it's safer. Just, come on, dude.”

Quentin looks towards the direction opposite and then back before sighing and agreeing to follow.

Nea keeps him close. He looked antsy to get out of her sight, but she wouldn't allow it. She had not usually felt protective as such, usually the mind to believe that if you got caught, it was on you, and you were inconveniencing everyone if they had to come rescue you. But lately, she had begun to think differently. Between her own mistakes, Dwight's team playing and Quentin's incident, she had felt herself growing fonder and more altruistic.

She had a motherly instinct to protect Quentin after what she had seen, what she had been though.

They reach the generator and begin to work together. Nea gives him the safer spot, farther away from the nearest set of stairs to the lower level. He begins to work instantly, but is sluggish and slow, his head mostly focused on everything else around him.

He seemed paranoid, and for good reason.

“You alright?” Nea asks, trying not to allude to anything. She wanted to pretend she hadn't seen what she had, saving him the embarrassment of knowing someone had known him in such a vulnerable moment.

He doesn't answer. It looks like he wasn't even present mentally. She understands, two hundred percent so, and a wave of guilt washes over her.

She had made him like this. She could have saved him, but she didn't.

Her head hangs low and she feels worse than awful. Curses directed at herself enter her mind, thinking that _if she could just do it all over again_ she would stomp over there, take the freak's own chainsaw and splatter his blood and guts everywhere.

It made her feel a little better to envision it.

In thought, suddenly her mind begins to feel itchy. She scratches at her head before the itch turns into sharp burning sensations, and quickly her head turns to the ground.

Tiny sparks of electricity seam in and out of the ground. She turns her head to Quentin, who had begun to feel it, too.

She screams.

The maniacal laughter of the Doctor rings in her ears. His hand was extended as he walked quickly in their direction, sending painful shocks into the ground below them. He had been coming from the stairs she had hypothesized he would, meaning he was closest to her, a guarantee she would be the one who would be chased.

She doesn't even look back to Quentin to see if he ran. She just makes off in the direction behind her, positive in her belief that he would follow, and no matter what Quentin did he would be safe.

She was wrong.

It took a few seconds and suddenly she didn't feel the electricity in her skin anymore. She looks behind her, expecting to see him behind about to attack, however he was nowhere in sight.

Dread filled the pits of her stomach. Why had he gone after _him_? She was the one he saw, the one who made off lickety split. The Doctor had no reason to go for Quentin instead.

Nea makes her way back to the generator. She finds it's gears ticking with fervor, undamaged, but the killer nor Quentin in sight. She looks around, listening for any sounds that would indicate they were near.

She hears a whimpering, somewhere off in the close distance, followed by another laugh.

_No._

Her feet hit the ground with speed, running in the distance of the noises. She grips her party starter tight between her fingers, a plan already forming in her head in how to save him.

This time, she wouldn't be helpless.

A corner is turned when she sees them. The Doctor's body that of a giant compared to little Quentin. His veiny hands hold him in place against a wall, Quentin's eyes closed and bended into discomfort. Little sparks made their way from his hands and through his fingers, catching on Quentin's neck and hip, making him yelp in pain.

“ _Hey!_ _Fuckface_!”

Quentin's eyes immediately open and the Doctor turns to face the interruption.

Nea sprints towards them and in a stroke of luck, throws the party starter just in time for it to go off directly in the face of the killer.

He shrivels in pain, eyes covered by his hands, letting go of Quentin for a mere instant, long enough for Nea to take him by the back of his neck and practically throw him out of the reach of the Doctor. Quentin stood, shocked and bewildered, making no move to run.

“ **Go!** ” Nea yells at the top of her lungs, giving him a last push before the Doctor finally recovered from his temporary blindness. He turns towards Nea, a look of red hot anger showing through his typically always-smiling grin. She looks up at him, unafraid, only happy that Quentin had managed to run. He juggles his weapon in his hand, hitting it repeatedly down on himself as he stepped forward, looking over her tiny form.

“That weapon compensating for something?”

He goes to smack her with it, but too quickly she jumped out of the way.

This time, he chased _her_.

As soon as she started to run, she hears the telltale ring of another generator completed. Her head turns to make sure she was still being followed, and she was. The Doctor had a temper that would redefine temper, clearly irritated and outraged. But _why_?

His gratingly raucous voice spins in her head as she’s continously hit with wave after wave of electricity. He was gaining on her. Her eyesight began to spin, all the world fading out, with the exception of determination. She didn’t want to die, and most certainly she refused to let Quentin die either. But he was fast, quicker than usual, his thunderous steps close enough that she could feel the heat of his body behind her.

The wack of the pallet coming down on him causes him to scream in rage. It gives her a few moments to get a head start.

She zigs and zags, loops until she decides she’s had enough. Time loses focus in her mind, she doesn’t remember how long she’s been running, and soon enough her skin starts to burn from both exertion and the electricity in her very core. She was surprised that the killer hadn’t managed to hit her at all yet, but there’s no time to ponder.

A loud ringing fills the entire plant. It was the sound of the exit gates being powered.

Hope fills her tired body and she makes for the gate farthest from where she was. Maybe someone was already there. She passes by another gate to see Adam powering it on. He looks back to them and shakes his head. It wasn’t even close yet, he just started. Just as Nea was wondering if she was going to make it at all, she feels something hit her back. He had caught up. She makes for it anyway, running as fast as she can, turning back only to see the Doctor’s attention was taken by a flashlight to the face from Feng Min.

She would have to remember to thank her later. It possibly bought her enough time to reach the other gate, or at the very least, loop around. But she hadn’t seen Quentin yet; meaning there was a likelihood he was already opening the other one.

And she was right, thank God.

“Quentin!”

He looks back towards her. For the first time in a while, there is a tiny smile on his face.

It makes her feel a lot better.

She stops running and instead jogs down the stairs and to the door. She was panting like a dog, exhausted and ready to finally go back to the warm fire and take a good, long nap. “Christ, man,” she says, leaning against the wall, closing her eyes. “I fucking hate this stupid ass world.”

As if the world itself had heard her, a tingle in her feet makes her eyes snap open.

He had _already fucking caught up_.

The sickening face of the Doctor comes in the distance. His foul smile drips saliva onto his chin, something that she had never seen before.

He looked fucking _pissed_.

“Oh God,” she whispers, looking towards Quentin with wide eyes.

“It’s not - it’s not done-” He visibly grows anxious. His hands start to shake, looking back towards the killer, who grew closer with each passing second.

“Just stay on it, okay?”

Quentin looks at her with confusion. “I-”

“Just don’t fucking stop!”

Nea races back up the stairs, blocking the Doctor’s path. She was already injured, it would only take a single hit for her to be on the ground, and for him to reach Quentin, and do... _whatever he was doing before_.

“Fuck” she whispers underneath her breath, heart racing, blood pumping. She was really going to regret this. As the Doctor grows close, he readies his attack. Nea braces herself to dodge when she hears the exit gate ring its first alarm.

Only one more to go. Just a few seconds.

He throws his weapon down with gusto, and Nea only barely dodges the attack. She jumps to the left, ending up behind him, leaving him to hit the railing of the stairs.

The second alarm rings, and Nea can taste victory. Then, she realizes her mistake.

She should have just allowed herself to be hit. The stairs were clear of anything stopping him. Just as soon as she had won, she had simultaneously lost in the worst way possible. He headed down the stairs and Nea could do nothing but watch as Quentin tried to run to through the gates, just as they opened. Nea ran back down the stairs and followed, praying she would get there in time to protect him before he was grabbed.

He had been hit, and screamed as he was. The Doctor tripped him before he could run right out of the gate, giving her one and only chance to save him. Nea pushed her way past the Doctor to grab Quentin from the ground, forcing the boy up by his collar. She ran in front of him, practically pulling him to safety.

It was in her grasp. In arm's length, Quentin would have been free.

The Doctor’s petrifying laugh shook the very ground as his superior strength pulled Quentin back. Nea tumbled forward as she lost her grip, the black spider-like twigs of the Entity cutting off the way back.

“NO!”

Nea screams as she crawls back, her dirty hands gripping the Entity’s limbs, trying with every fiber in her being to break them, or create a hole big enough for her to climb back through.

Quentin screamed as a wave of electricity hit him directly. It was so intense, Nea could feel it from outside the gate. The doctor pierced his weapon into the ground right next to Quentin’s head, which was forced into the dirt as the man above him bound him to the ground.

“ _Can’t run anymore._ ”

The Doctor had never spoken. His voice sent a shiver down both of their backs.

He moved away from Quentin and for a moment, she thought he was just going to leave. Instead, he moved only to be able to tear down Quentin’s jeans.

“Please no, please no,” Quentin cried repeatedly, doing anything in his power to stop the assault. He wiggled and tried to crawl away, but even as close as he was to freedom, the Entity didn’t drop its barrier. Nea continued her charge against the limbs, but they wouldn’t budge, not even when Quentin was close enough to touch them.

The Doctor continued to tear until Quentin’s ass was clearly visible. “P-please!” Quentin pleads a final time. “Please, p-please, just not in front of-” A powerful hand wraps its way around his mouth, sending shocks into his jaw. Nea can hear his muffled screaming and watches as he begins to cry. Quentin is powerless as the Doctor pulls out his cock; it was huge, full of veins, thick and visibly throbbing. Nea could see it clearly and her jaw drops, her hand going to cover her mouth. She was happy Quentin’s eyes were closed. She didn’t want to scare him even more than he already must be.

His thick cock pushes into Quentin’s unprepared hole. Like the others, it seemed like he had no time to waste. Or maybe it was a show of dominance; they had run him around and wasted his time too much for him to care enough to prepare him. “No! Stop, you fucking...you fucking _monster_!” Nea screamed at him from behind the Entity’s wall, hyperventilating as she tried to find a way back inside the trial. Hopelessly, she looked to the corners and to the walls that surrounded the trial. In a stroke of grit and prowess, she attempted climbing over the brick wall to the right of the gate. She was able to climb it, feet barely able to keep their grip, lifting her body up top, when the Entity manifested more limbs on top of it. They pierced her hands and wrists as they seemingly came from nowhere, and she falls onto her back with a gasp, the air knocked from her lungs by the impact.

There was no way to save him. This was the Entity’s world, and clearly, it wanted this. _It wanted this._

Quentin’s muffled sobs are what bring her back. Her eyes focus on the sky above, dark and cloudy, unnatural in all respects. Her body is loose and unmoving, her mind is swimming with a thousand things at once. Once more, she was helpless in the face of saving him. The Doctor’s hideous moans fill the air, a dominant noise that burned anger into Nea’s ears.

“I’m not looking” Nea says, quiet and melancholic. “I’m not looking.”

She remembers the worst thing about her own assault; the eyes. People watched, even if they didn’t participate. The videos that circled had people enraged, sure, but it meant nothing. They looked. They saw. People saw her like that, sobbing and raped, and all of them were wrong for it.

Nea didn’t want that to be on Quentin. If she couldn’t save him, she wouldn’t make it worse.

Quentin’s body burned. From shame, from yet another dry fucking, but mostly from the electricity. The Doctor was ruthless, sending it into everywhere he touched, no mercy in his heart to give the boy a break. Quentin was only just getting used to it when suddenly deep within in asshole, the electricity flowed through there as well.

He thought it would be agonizing, but it wasn’t. It numbed him, the pain, and after a few moments, reached his prostate.

Quentin screamed, his body convulsing involuntarily.

The Doctor was seemingly pleased, another laugh escaping his rotting mouth. Everything was too much. He would rather been back with anyone but him, _anyone_. The pressure of the Doctor above him didn’t help, he felt as if he was suffocating between the hand on his mouth and the other hand holding his hips to tightly he felt as if he would suddenly snap in half, along with the weight on his entire body. Even if Nea could have found a way in, he doubts there was much she could do. All he hoped was that she was telling the truth when she said she wasn’t looking, but kept his eyes closed to save him from seeing if it was true.

The pace gets agonizingly fast. It had no rhythm anymore, clearly he was coming to his own end. Quentin thanked God for it. He just wanted it to be over. He would do anything for it to be.

Just as soon as the pace crests, the Doctor stops. Quentin braced himself for cum, but instead, felt nothing, except the cock exiting his hole.

Suddenly, Quentin was forced to his knees. The Doctor picked him up by his hair and turned him quickly, jerking his cock off with his free hand. He slapped Quentin’s mouth and forced his jaw open, shoving his throbbing cock into his mouth. Two hands place themselves on his head, and without warning, he begins to fuck into him. Quentin wasn’t ready, not in the slightest to deepthroat, but the Doctor’s strength overcame that. He is able to force himself down into Quentin’s throat, and doesn’t stop when he gags, and certainly not when his nose beings to pour blood.

A load of thick cum enters his throat. Quentin couldn’t breathe, but he does his best to swallow the intrusion.

_He just wanted this to be over._

The Doctor pulls from Quentin’s mouth with a pop as soon as he had been satisfied. Quentin coughs up cum and blood from his nosebleed, and shakily he uses the sleeves of his jacket to wipe his face. He watches with a scowl on his face as the killer pulls up his pants and readjusts his coat. His piercing laugh enters Quentin’s head once more, one final violation to commit.

He grabs his weapon from the muddy ground, eyeing it carefully, holding it for a moment before touching it to Quentin’s hard cock. Quentin gasped and moved backwards, but hits the Entity’s wall. It was sharp, bloodied and dangerous, and Jesus Christ he could easily cut off anything he wanted to. It wasn’t meant to be anywhere near-

Suddenly, a jolt of electricity is sent through the weapon, and Quentin’s body convulses once more, cumming on the spot.

Even when the weapon was removed, Quentin could do nothing but sit for a moment, whimpering. His eyes roll into the back of his head as he rides out the feeling, holding onto the limbs behind him for support, his body fighting off the urge to pass out. It takes a few moments and every single one the Doctor watches for, pleased at his own work and seemingly happy to see Quentin so utterly defeated.

It’s over in what felt like hours, but was truthfully only a minute.

Quentin’s eyes are closed as he heaves and hyperventilates. The tangled web of limbs that he used for support fall behind him, the gate finally opening, the Entity ostensibly pleased, and ready to allow him to leave. The Doctor watches as Nea rushes towards him, pulling his limp body into the safety beyond the wall. She gives a final look to the killer, before he turns and goes back into the plant.

She holds his body in her arms, and Quentin reaches up to hold onto it. He was beaten and bloody, bruised and exhausted beyond belief. Both of them covered in a thick excess of sweat and dirt, they did nothing but hold onto each other for dear life. Quentin’s mind hazy and empty, Nea’s full of wrath and failure, but both hearts full of the frailty of violation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your regularly scheduled Quentin-POV will be back next time. Thanks for reading! As always, thank you for your support!


	7. The Trapper / Quentin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usually when I write these chapters, I'm like, "yeah, this is good, I like this. Time to publish." This time, its more like..."this is as good as its going to get and its late. Hopefully /someone/ doesn't think its utter shit." So yeah. Have fun, if you can!
> 
> Triggers: PTSD, rape/non con, watersports, other gross shit. Please turn back if you're uncomfy. [i still blame tf2 for piss kink.](https://www.deviantart.com/psychohog/art/piece-a-piss-400557232)

The moment he and Nea walked into the campfire's clearing, they had turned heads of everyone in the area. Meg waved at Nea and Claudette readied her plants and aid-kits, while David actually got up from his seat on the ground only to meet them halfway and to give Quentin a 'bro’ hug and a pat on the back.

“Fuck, bruv, where 'ave you been? You look like shit!”

Thanks, everso aware David.

Quentin scratched the back of his head and looked away. “Uh...dead, I think.”

David laughed.

The now trio make their way to the fire. Claudette waits with a smile, only getting up to offer Nea her seat as to patch her up. Nea takes it, sitting on the log with a grunt, her back bloodied to hell, her head pounding relentlessly. Claudette is gentle, lifting her shirt only enough to see the injury on her back, putting a little more than enough bandages than necessary in an attempt to make sure they would stay and actually absorb the blood. “No stitches,” she says softly, looking over her work once more before allowing Nea to put her shirt back down. “But I may be wrong. We'll check tomorrow if you don't get in another trial.”

_ Tomorrow _ . What a useless word that had become.

Quentin took an empty seat on the log that nobody was sitting on. It was only empty for a few moments before David sat down next to him, uncomfortably close and too touchy. His arm wrapped around Quentin's shoulders and he pulled him in jokingly, ruffling his hair, something you would do to a child or with a lover. He didn't want to be touched, not in a million years, but somehow his heart raced when he thought about denying him.

“Why were you gone so long, kid?”

Quentin starts to sweat. He shrugs and looks into the fire, praying that everyone would just  _ leave him alone. _ The last thing he wanted was to be bombarded with questions. David let's go if him but still sits close, even though there was an entire log of room to be at. David was just like this, however, it still made him anxious.

“I'm going to go to bed.”

Quentin stands abruptly and makes way for his spot just beyond the treeline. He can practically feel eyes on him as he walks as quickly as he could to the woods, eager to get away from them for just a while. He didn't want to talk, and most certainly didn't want to be around Nea, considering how much she knew.

He prayed that she wouldn't say anything, but he would know if she did sooner or later.

He ducks behind a bundle of plants and leaves and sits down against the tree. Everyone had a spot to themselves for the most part, a place where you could sleep and be alone and store any belongings you had. He was lucky enough to find this place, surrounded by brush and cover, but a patch of free space right below the tree. He had hidden away only a few things; a flashlight, a toolbox, and a poorly carved butterfly.

He held it in his hands. He was thankful it hadn't disappeared, as things sometimes just would.

He couldn't sleep. He  _ wouldn't. _ Instead, he held onto that piece of wood and laid back against the tree, staring into the sky, dreaming about happier things. 

But no happy thoughts came.

Instead his mind wandered to what had been happening. Five times he had been violated, five different times with four different men. Myers, Freddy, Leatherface, The Doctor… the memories ran through his mind like a racehorse. These killers, whom of which he had been pitted against dozens of times each had suddenly decided, all at once, to fuck him? One after another, as if by clockwork.

Quentin didn't know  _ why _ . The question itched and clawed at his mind, head spinning with rationalizations and unbelievable answers. Why him, out of everyone? Or was it not just him, and there were others having to face these attacks? Was he doing something wrong? His clothes were the same as they always were. He hadn't been showing anything off. He had done nothing out of the ordinary to his memory. These all were supposed to be normal trials, nothing more, nothing less.

So  _ why? _

He found himself repeating the question in his head, yet no real explanations came to his aid.

‘ _ Maybe I deserve this. Maybe this really is hell. _ ’

He found it easier to drift into daydreams without falling asleep. He knew when he got to far, he would be able to feel himself falling asleep, but truthfully it was easiest now to stay awake then it will be. It had been less than a day, he presumed, since he had last 'slept’, meaning he was going to be fine, at least for a little while. He wore himself down thinking of his recent traumas and instead involuntary began to think of the Huntress. He could see her clearly, make out her large stature and bulging muscles, childlike aura and all-too loving actions. It was wrong, but he wanted to see her again. He wanted to be helpless in her arms. He  _ needed  _ it, more than anything at all, especially now. 

His mother always said anything you put out there comes back to you. So he started to hope as hard as he absolutely could, stood up from the tree, and walked into the forest. He quickly peers behind him and sure enough, nobody even glanced over accidentally. 

None of them would even realize he was gone, and he wondered if that was how it was back home.

The thick foliage crunches and cracks beneath his feet as he walks. This world was seemingly adapting, or at the very least changing its surroundings from time to time. There was never nearly this much growth everywhere as far as he remembered, but it it didn’t matter. In fact, he would be ecstatic to accidently trip over a certain killer again.

His hands bury themselves into his jean pockets as he walks, looking mostly towards the ground, making sure he wouldn’t trip. Where he was going didn’t matter, he would end up back at the campfire sooner or later, but he hoped that it would be later instead of the alternative. Even if he didn’t see her again, he needed to just...be away from them for a while. His spot was isolated, but it was still much to close to the others, and he surely didn’t want anyone to come over and try to talk to him so soon.

Quentin stops suddenly, both in his tracks and thoughts. A soft glow emanates from the trees ahead, and he quickly sighs to himself. He was just thinking about how much he  _ didn’t  _ want to be back already, it would only make sense that he was. He huffs in annoyance and considers turning back and just going back in, but that would only prolong the inevitable. Clearly this hell world wanted him back, so he was going to be back one way or another. He rolls his eyes and walks forward, defeated and ready to just go back to his spot and do nothing for hours on end.

As he got closer to the treeline, he realized and realized quickly that this  _ wasn’t  _ his campfire. As he was about to step out into the clearing he hastily stops in his tracks, instead going back to hide behind a particularly large pile of brush. His head peeks out over it, only enough to where he could see over its twigs and leaves.

It was a fire, surely, but in a clearing much smaller than the one he knew. There is a large body sitting near it, something in his hand poking at the flames, a tiny pile of what looked like bear traps sitting next to the broken log they sat on.

_ Trapper _ .

The Trapper was one of the ones that scared him less. He was pretty big, sure, but he wasn’t particularly fast, nor did he have supernatural powers, which was a plus. His cleverly placed traps were a detriment, that’s true, but at the very fucking least he couldn’t appear out of nowhere right behind you.

But in the woods, alone, coupled with the fact that (almost) every single killer he had come across had wanted to fuck him? He suddenly became a million times more terrifying. 

Quentin crouched in those bushes for what felt like fifty years. He kept his mouth covered, trying his best not to breathe too loudly, keeping his feet steadfast on the ground as to not crunch the twigs beneath him. Somehow the killer didn’t hear him approach, but he surely would if he made the wrong move.

As if his worst fears were realized, the Trapper stood up after a while. He turned directly around and began to walk directly towards Quentin. He had never felt his heart race faster than in that moment. As he walks, Quentin realizes two things - one, he wasn’t wearing his mask. The Trapper’s face was scarred, akin to the rest of his body. His face was far from soft, full of features that screamed unkindness, like the kind of person you’d bump into on the street whom would yell at you even if it was their fault. Or rather, in this case, kill you for it. Secondly, the man was removing his overalls as he walked. He had never paid any attention before but the killer wore no other clothes, just those pair of dirty green denims.

Had he been caught yet? Was he already going to be assaulted, so soon?

Quentin whimpered, but quickly shut himself up. There was no indication that he had been caught yet. Maybe if he just laid low, he would walk right past him…

Directly in front of him, he stopped. Quentin held his breath, eyes wide, praying that he was still hidden. He could see the bare chest of the Trapper, close enough to see individual pores of the skin. The next sound he hears is the man’s overalls hitting the ground, and suddenly, what was happening clicked in his head. Without warning, a stream of urine rushes through the brush, a soft groan coming from the man above him. It hits his face and Quentin whines, quickly darting back, straight into view of the killer.

The Trapper growls, and promptly goes to grab Quentin. It only takes one arm to lift Quentin forward and out of the bushes and into the clearing. For the entire duration the man doesn’t stop urinating, the hot liquid making its way all over Quentin, trickling down onto his shirt and jacket. He’s thrown to the ground and instantly he goes to sprint away, understanding that history was about to repeat himself. However, a heavy foot kicks itself onto his back, a massive weight crushing his chest and lungs.

“I-I can make you feel good,” he says, stuttering and shaky, his body . “I promise I can. I p-promise.”

He could already feel the pain. It howled and it ached, his mind clogged with fear and solutions. If he would have known, he would have prepared himself. If he would have known, he could have convinced himself to try and like it.

_ ‘If I like this, It won’t hurt.’  _ Even in his head, he stuttered.

He does his best to focus on breathing. The pressure on his spine was crushing, mashing his insides and borderline about to break ribs. He gasps when the pressure is released a moment later, but everything was only about to get worse. A strong hand pulls his hair and lifts him to his knees, dragging him along the ground until his face was placed directly in front of the Trapper’s hardening cock. Quentin looked up to the man submissively, understanding that no matter what, there was no way he could possibly fight and win. He was, as always, defenseless, completely at the will of the killer.

The Trapper slaps his wet cock on Quentin’s cheek, smearing what piss was left on it onto him. Quentin was already covered in the liquid, its salty fetor intense enough to bring tears to the corner of his eyes. He closes his eyes and opens his mouth, allowing the man to do whatever he wished, internally trying to find a way to calm himself down. It was just like all the others; they would use him however they wanted, and then they would throw him away. It was the same formula, new man. He tried to convince himself that this wasn’t the first time he had done this and that everytime it got a little easier, but it was in vain. It never got easier, in fact, quite the opposite.

The Trapper’s cock enters Quentin’s mouth. The taste hits him instantly, a foul and bitter flavor, so nauseating to the point where he thought he was going to vomit right then and there. He had no choice but to take it as the killer forced himself in, tightly holding curly locks of hair in between his fingers, thrusting his hips forward. Tears began to roll down his face, and in colliding with the wetness of the urine he was almost unable to tell if he was crying at all. Quentin whines and cries, and in an attempt to hasten the experience, he works to suck instead of just leave himself open. He hears the Trapper grunt, seemingly in approval as he hallowed his cheeks and bobbed his head up and down. The tight grip on his hair loosened and no longer did he need the others’ thrusts, he did it all on his own. 

Quentin swirled his tongue around the shaft, taking it as deep as he could without it going into his throat. To compensate he added his hand to the base, holding whatever he couldn’t fit into his tiny mouth. The man seemed okay with it for the moment, allowing Quentin to take control, only thrusting forward now when he decided that he wasn’t going fast enough. The hand in his hair still held but not nearly as hurtful as before, something he was thankful for.

The Trapper was nearly silent, only small noises leaving his mouth, making Quentin nervous. He didn’t know if he was doing well enough, and he dreaded to think about what would happen if the killer decided that another hole would suit him better. He was unbelievably unprepared, and didn’t want to even entertain the idea of having to force another cock inside so soon. He could still feel the aftermath of the Doctor’s torment, and since he hadn’t died last time, the effects still ravaged his body.

It looks like it wouldn’t matter, however. The Trapper grabs his wrist and forces it away from his cock, proceeding to take both hands to Quentin’s head. He begins to thrust into him, more violently than before, easily able to overcome Quentin’s pushes backwards. He was forced to take the girth completely down his throat until black pubic hairs reared themselves on his nose, the sweaty musk of the killer fogging his mind.

His teary eyes glance up at his assailant, face red and wet. Hands wrap themselves around the Trapper’s legs, holding onto his muscled thighs for support, desperately trying to keep himself up against the brutal force of the killer. It was clear that he had grown impatient in the face of Quentin’s best attempt. 

Perhaps he wanted it to end just as much as he did.

Abruptly the Trapper’s cock is pulled from his mouth and a hand goes to violently jerk it, thick white spurts of cum landing Quentin’s face and jaw. He gasps, closing his eyes to avoid the emission, a firm hand forcing his head upright.

When he feels nothing else, Quentin dares to open his eyes. The Trapper looked downwards towards him, face stoic and cold, but panting lightly in his exertion. He jerked his cock slowly, the last dribblets of cum hitting the ground beneath them until there was nothing more left. 

Quentin’s hands still wrapped around his legs, he gently petted them absentmindedly, more in an attempt to calm himself than the other. The Trapper snarled, taking a step back only to kick Quentin’s chest back onto the ground once more. Quentin wheezes as he hits the ground, his senses coming back all at once. He quickly darts in the opposite direction away from the Trapper, only glaring back to see him pick up his overalls and put them back on.

He didn’t even look back.

A run turns into a jog and a jog into a walk. The woods are eerily more quiet than usual, not even the humm of crickets or the howl of a distant wolf to fill the air. The entirety of the walk is spent desperately trying to wipe himself off with both his jacket and shirt, visible wet stains on his collar, stench still pungent and strong on his clothes. He was aware of a familiar heat in his pants but ignored it, his mind too focused on trying his damndest to look presentable to the others, or at the very least smell like it. 

He eventually sees the familiar glow of the campfire, quiet chatter of his friends filling his heart with comfort. He walked around the treeline, out of sight until he spots his little clearing before practically skipping there with joy. He never thought he would be so happy to be alone, but here he was. Quickly he sits down and leans on the tree. He stares at the sky and sighs, trying to calm down his shaky and demoralized body. 

He takes off his jacket sets it to the side before unzipping his jeans and taking care of himself, thoughts heavy with memories, scent thick of the Trapper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! ＼(^▽^;;)/ More coming soon.


	8. Legion (all) / Quentin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers for: gangrape, dubious consent, humiliation, double penetration and overstimulation. Also sexism. (Don't worry 'bout the sexism, the ladies of Legion are too badass to care about gross men.)

Even when you didn’t sleep, the Entity found different ways to thrust hell upon you.

It had happened to Quentin before. The fog, which was ever so prominent, would envelop you. It came suddenly and was gone just as quickly as it had came, leaving you in the throat of yet another trial, proving that there really was no way to get out of doing your due time. Sometimes the Entity would seemingly give you a break, letting you take a breather for a while if you managed to keep your eyes open and your mind aware, but lately, he hadn't been so lucky.

Quentin stared blankly at the cloudy sky for what felt like an eternity, doing nothing at all, hardly even thinking. His mind was peacefully empty, a welcome change that brought him some semblance of inner peace. The shame of jerking off had long since passed in his head along with what had triggered it, the only remaining evidence being a hazy half memory and a familiar smell.

How much time had passed was irrelevant. No matter how long it had been since he had returned from his previous trial, it was too soon. It was  _ always _ too soon. The fog surrounds him, creeping in the corners of his vision, but Quentin remains static. He knew well enough now that the Entity could do whatever it wanted, and no amount of running could save you. The fog temporarily blinds him, the hazy grey and yellow swarming his senses before releasing him into yet another trial.

Quentin recognized this place. It was one of the very few trial areas that was bright. The white sky and snowy ground hurt his eyes, too much too used to nothing but foul blends of greys and reds. It takes him a moment to get used to the sudden luminosity increase, but he adapts quickly. At the very least, it was a welcome change. He shakes his head, trying to wake himself from the distrait he had been in, quickly coming to his senses. It was soon and it sucked, that much was sure, but he needed to do what he had to unless he wanted today to go very badly. His mind wandered not to that of totems or gens, in fact, it was the farthest from his thoughts. Instead, he was only concerned with where he could prepare himself alone. He looks around hurriedly, afraid that he would run out of time before he was found. Swiftly he makes it for a corner, where a random broken down wall had been placed. It would be a decent area to hide, at least for the moment. Quentin sits himself down on his knees on the snowy ground, unbothered by it's barely cold temperature. Like the campfire, it only reached a certain degrees. No matter how much you touched it, it wouldn't burn or freeze you. It was unnatural, but he was happy for it this time.

He slides down his jeans just past his thighs. He leans on the wall for support, surprisingly unshaken by what he was about to do.

Perhaps he had gotten used to it. Perhaps he didn't even realize he had a choice anymore.

Fingers enter his mouth, then quickly out. He slides a hand underneath his boxers, growing anxious with every passing moment. His fingertips are cold and wet against the warmth of his body, but still he persists. His index finger rims his hole lightly, a deep breath entering his lungs as he slowly slid it inside, a gentle gasp escaping his lips. He bit his bottom lip for support, desperately trying to remind himself that whoever the killer was, they weren't going to be this gentle. He forced himself to hurry. He slid the finger in completely and curled it, adding another one shortly after. He hurriedly began to scissor himself open as best he could, just like when it had been done to him before. It didn't feel nearly as good, however he didn't find himself hating it. 

But it wasn't about love or hate. He reminded himself this was about  _ them _ .

Once he felt prepared enough, he removed his fingers and pulled up his pants. He adjusted his half hard cock, making sure it wouldn't be obvious, feeling all around uncomfortable and more than ready to get this underway and over with. He exits the tiny area and looks around quickly, as if a deer crossing a meadow, looking for predators. He walks as silently as possible, perhaps out of habit, around the trial area. It couldn't be long until he found the killer, or at the very least a gen. 

Yet neither seemingly existed.

As he paced the trial, he felt more out of place than usual. The world around him was intently quiet, incredibly so, making him feel as if he were in the Twilight Zone. Even the wind seemed eerily still, perhaps frozen in time, perhaps a glitch in the Entity's system. Whatever was going on, it was terribly out of the realm of normal.

He wanders close to the house when he hears it - voices. For a moment he thinks he might be hearing his teammates, however, his instincts tell him otherwise. There were too many voices. Unless the Entity sent him here by accident, to an already full trial, (which could be plausible, considering sometimes you got into a trial with only two others) there was  _ no way _ that was them. Besides, even faintly he knew off the bat that those weren't the sounds of anyone he knew.

Which left options, but those options didn't make any sense. Or, at the very least, he  _ prayed _ weren't true.

“...a whole mess. But this is kinda cool too, cuz’ we don't have'ta eat 'n shit.” 

A distinctly male voice is followed by a deep feminine one. “Yeah, but pizza. And alcohol. And weed.”

“We found weed though.”

“One time, dumbass.”

The voices bicker and the more he listens the more terror envelopes him. He was certain now that none of these voices belong to anyone he knew or wanted to know.

“It's not fair, cause Frank is usually the one to get to go out and kill…” 

“Shut the fuck up, Suz. Ain't like your little ass wants to anyway.”

Quentin hears the cracking of a glass bottle being broken, followed by the laughter of one of the men.

“Yo, chill Suz. Joey's just being gay cause he's horny.” 

“Don't fucking look at her, Frank. She don't want you. Either of you freaks.”

“But we're  _ your _ freaks.”

A short silence follows. Quentin assumed she agreed. 

Unsure of what to do or who those people were, he was only sure that they were no good. He had never heard their voices but they talked as if they were  _ killers _ . Something didn't feel right. Even though he was as ready as could be to, for once in his life, go out of his way to find the killer, he felt an instinctual urge to run. Something told him he had wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time, and that this wouldn't be just a simple trial.

He goes to walk away, find an escape. Maybe the doors were already open and he just had to find one. As he goes to leave, the creak of his foot on a particularly loose piece of wood echos in the stillness.

“Yo, the fuck was that?”

Two options become clear to him instantly - he either runs, or he doesn't. There was no longer middle ground.

He froze in his tracks and held his eyes tightly closed. His mind races like that of a jet as he imagines the possibilities, begging his body to mode, to run, to do  _ something,  _ anything at all.

He was tired of hurting. He still wanted this to be painless. In a bout of courage, or perhaps naivety, he steps into the building, arms slightly raised in a show of submission. As he walked through the door to the dusty old cabin, he looked up to see four people, all sitting on the ledge on the second floor that overlooked the entire lodge. He recognized them after a few moments, mostly due to their hoodies and the vibrant pink hair of one of the women.

_ Legion _ . 

“Who do we have here?”

One of the men jump down from the ledge, landing almost cat-like. He is white, whilst the other man was black with dark paint surrounding his eyes, looking down with a menacing expression. The man who had jumped down was menacing in his own right; he looked like someone Quentin would have been friends with in highschool. Tatoos, scars, eyes that practically screamed violence and mischief. He certainly wasn't the spitting image of a good, well balanced person, and while in real life he would have stuffed his judgements about someone's appearance, here he knew he was right. 

The man circles him. Quentin stiffens, fearful and clearly outnumbered, but oddly happy that women were present. He knew well that they were killers also, but somehow just the fact they weren't men gave him an odd sense of peace. Maybe he wouldn't be raped at all; maybe he would just be killed, which was something he could live with, ironically.

“Who the fuck is that, Frank?”

The man, whose name was apparently Frank, chuckles lightly. “No fuckin idea.”

“What the hell he doin’ out here?”

The woman without the pink hair drops down to investigate further. She approached more alpha-like than her comrade. Her face was scarred too, but it held a much more serious and murderous expression than his tryhard smile had.

It sends a shiver down his spine, but he remains stiffly still.

“Why don't we ask him?” The woman doesn't hesitate to grab Quentin's jaw with a force unlike her smaller stature. She holds him tightly in her hands, pulling his face near hers.

“What's your name?”

Quentin chokes on his reply. He was suddenly more terrified of her than either of those men.

“Q-Quentin!”

“Quentin?”

He nods vigorously.

She lets go of his jaw but throws him back as she did. He yelps in surprise as he's caught by Frank, who laughed an “I got’ya” sarcastically. His arms wrapped around Quentin and hold him tightly, one hand on his chest and one dangerously near his groin. Quentin's heart raced with anxiety and his body again went stiff, but he didn't try to reject the man's advances. There was four of them and one of him and, in his mind, his only hope was that  _ one  _ of them would realize this was wrong. 

“He's kind of cute,” says Frank, biting Quentin's ear playfully. 

“I guess.”

The other man jumps down now. He walks past the woman  arms were crossed, eyes fixed on Quentin but not saying anything further.

“Really? Looks fucked up t’ me.”

This comment emits a laugh from Frank. “I mean, yeah, but have some fuckin respect, Joey. He didn't do shit to you.”

Quentin had been bullied enough to know they were just toying with him. It wasn't something he thought about in a while since he had arrived in this hellish world, since nobody ever made fun of anyone else. There was playful teasing, sure, but everyone was on edge and nobody needed that kind of childish drama.

It was something he didn't think would, but ended up hurting him. He had low self esteem out there and it surely carried over, but looks weren't his first (or anybody's, other than maybe David's) first worry anymore.

“You think he's a virgin?” Joey questions contemplatively, as if Quentin wasn't there to ask.

“Lah-mayo, he looks like it.”

He doesn't know who but a hand reached under his shirt. His eyes were forced up as one of Frank's hands held his neck, a finger probing at his Adams apple, making him wriggle and write involuntarily. 

“Oh, come  _ on _ Julie. Come have some fun.”

Julie, who's arms remained crossed, rolled her eyes as she stepped forward, closer to Quentin. “I don't know what the big deal is, he looks fucking high, man. What's got you two all horned up all of the sudden?”

“We haven't gotten laid since we got here,” Frank responds somewhat bitterly, as if that fault laid somehow on her shoulders.

“Oh, kill yourself, whiny bitch.”

Frank pushes Quentin off, landing him in the arms of the much bigger Joey. Quentin is stunned but both watch as Frank approaches Julie, seemingly trying to be intimidating.

“No. You claim you're a dyke yet you fucked Simon and Zander. So clearly you're not fucking gay, you just think you're better than me.”

Julie stood still, her head tilted and arms still crossed. She was clearly unintimidated by Frank's pathetic whining.

“Hm. So you wanna fuckin’ take those retards’ stories as fact? You're literally fucking braindead. And I  _ am _ better than you. I don't owe you shit. You wanna fuck? Fuck yourself.”

Frank laughs and rolls his eyes. There is a clear tent in his tight jeans as he paced back and forth, and it makes Quentin  _ afraid. _ They were all getting heated, and Quentin was caught in the middle of it; a toy to get their anger out on however they wanted.

He only prayed he would stay out of the crossfire, but he could tell that wasn't possible.

As their fight raged on, Joey had started to grind against Quentin's ass. It was slow and shallow and Quentin was now happy he had prepared himself. Two hands hold Quentin's thighs somewhat loosely, but hard enough to pull his rear backwards to better suit his needs.

“Whatever. You and Susie can go scissor each other then.”

The pink haired woman, Susie, was still perched on top of the ledge. Her legs dangled off the side and rocked back and forth, her face hidden by a white mask, seemingly unbothered by the theatrics.

Frank turned back to Quentin and grabbed him by his jacket, forcefully taking him from Joey's grasp. He leads the boy by his collar to a couch, which was covered in snow and dust. He's thrown against it and forced onto his knees. Quentin holds onto the cushion behind him as support for what he knows is about to come; he licks his dry lips and tries to relax his throat.

Frank practically whips his belt off, tossing it to the side, clearly angry. He pulls down his tight jeans to reveal a fully hard cock. It was decent in length and width, swollen tip dripping precum, head red and eager. Frank grabs Quentin's hair and tilts his head up and Quentin instantly opens his jaw. He gives his cock a few strokes before shoving it into the hole in front of him. “How the fuck did you even get here” he idly asks, and the question goes right over his head. This certainly wasn't the time to question the Entity's enigmatic and sadistic ways, but it also certainly didn't seem like an ideal time to be fucked. Frank moaned as he thrusted in and out and, even as Quentin tried to show him he would just do it himself, he never let up. Perhaps he didn't notice that he could keep the pace, or maybe he just wanted to be in control. Either way, Quentin stopped bobbing his head, and instead worked to hallow his cheeks and take it. Surprisingly, Frank didn't force him to deepthroat. Quentin was glad for that, but it made him feel weak somehow. It was a strange and out of body experience, feeling as if he couldn't pleasure these killers, one that made him unusually melancholic. He shouldn’t care whether or not his body was felt good to be raped!

But  _ was _ it even forced anymore? He hadn't said 'no’, he hadn't even fought back. Hell, he prepared himself and walked in expecting it.

Unusual thoughts cloud his head and suddenly he feels his hand being raised. He grips onto another cock, guided by the hand of  _ somebody _ . His eyes remained closed, focused on breathing and trying not to cry as he jerks said cock with weak arms. His grip was loose and dry, the only lubrication being that of the tiny amount of precum that had been smeared on the tip, and he can't imagine it feels very good. Still, he remained surprised that he hadn't really been hurt, but that was soon about to change.

“Alright, my turn, get off.”

Quentin opens his eyes to see Joey pulling Frank back. Frank, however, still thrust generously into his mouth, refusing to let go of his hair.

“Fuck off, Jo. He's  _ mine _ .”

Joey growls. “Back off, man. You've had your turn.”

Frank looked two seconds away from getting into a fist fight. Quentin mentally laughed at the image of the two men fighting, dicks out, over who got what hole. It brought him some semblance of comfort, however, he knew in reality he was terrified.

It seemed like Frank had had enough anyway. He growls and forces Quentin to his feet, turning his body around to face the couch. Frank practically hops onto it, laying down with his head on the armrest, his hands on Quentin’s arms, dragging him on top. Quentin tries to find a comfortable position, but Joey was having none of it. Instead of being in a position in which he was facing Frank, he’s forced onto his back, Joey’s cock placed at his lips, head forced at an awkward angle that instantly hurt his neck. Too many sensations run through his body - a cock making its way in his mouth, hands dragging down his pants and crawling up his shirt, Joey’s capable hands holding his neck steadfast as he thrust in and out. 

“Yo, did this kid fucking finger himself?” Frank voices with a laugh, a finger at Quentin’s hole, easily able to thrust in and out. “What a cockslut.” Quentin closed his eyes in embarrassment. He did it because he didn’t think they would notice or care about it. He felt shame wash over his body and tears poke at the corners of his eyes. Frank’s finger departs and to take his place is the cold tip of his cock, still wet from being sucked, freezing from the cold winter air. He shivers against it as it pushes into his hole, entering with little resistance. It wasn’t painful but the familiar burn was one he had grown to both love and hate. He moans against the cock in his mouth, the vibrations earning a grunt from Joey, who had started to pick up the pace. Still, he had yet to deepthroat, but his cock was sizably larger than Franks. With every push he hit the back of his throat and Quentin could feel him trying to get deeper, but at the angle it was painfully uncomfortable. He could hold him back, at least for the moment, but his body grew tired and tired quickly. Frank thrust in and out of his ass, slowly at first but eager to hurry the process. It was no time at all before he was balls deep, ramming in and out at a brisk pace. His hands are wrapped around Quentin’s chest, holding whatever breasts he had in his hands, fingers grazing over the nipples. With every touch Quentin quivered, his own cock hard and abandoned, release at his doorstep. 

He could feel his sanity slipping away with each passing moment.

Quentin had almost forgotten that there were two others present until Susie walked into his vision. She stood directly behind Joey, her head tilted, observing him as he sucked and gagged on cock. He looked directly into her eyes, or where they should be; her mask was still fashioned on her face, hiding all identifying features. He wasn’t sure if she was laughing at him or what. However, he wouldn’t have to wonder for long. One of her hands take the mask into it, sliding it up and off, revealing a smiling face. Her lips contorted into a smile, showing off pink and green braces that accentuated her age. She looked younger than the other three, but somehow she looked even more aggressive than them all. She sported a leather choker which was fastened with a golden buckle, black eyeliner only visible on her bottom waterlines. She was the spitting image of a teen that shopped strictly at Hot Topic, unless they couldn’t afford it, instead stealing from it. It’s not like he could judge, truthfully; he was one of those people, just less asshole-ish. 

“Come on, Suz, move” Joey hisses at her. She giggles and moves back a bit, still staring directly at Quentin. 

He felt beyond embarrassed, but something about her made her made him not look away.

“Stop for a sec,” she mentions after a few minutes. He strains to follow her with his eyes, but he can feel her arm near his thigh. Suddenly Frank stops his movement, still leaving his cock buried deep inside of Quentin as Susie climbs on top of him. 

“Oh, come on, Susie,” Julie groans from somewhere out of his sight. “You can’t be serious.”

Susie ignored her. She sits comfortably on top of Quentin, her clothed groin sitting on his cock. Through her thin pair of leggings he could feel that she was wet, the slickness of her grinds up and down his cock coating him in it. He whined like a baby and if his mouth was free he would have been begging for it.

He hears the ripping of clothing and the yell of the other woman. “Susie!” she screams, clearly agitated. “What the fuck?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Frank growls at her. “You’re not in this.”

Susie snickers, grabbing Quentin’s dripping cock and placing it at the entrance to her pussy. She lowers herself onto it slowly, moaning as the tip penetrated her. Within only a few seconds she completely engulfed it, her hands using Quentin’s chest for support as she rocked back and forth.

“Holy fuck Suz” Joey groans, taking a pause to watch her fuck herself on his cock. She lifted herself up and down, not even trying to build herself up gradually, instead opting to hasily pound onto it. Frank starts his thrusting again and so does Joey and suddenly Quentin feels like he was going to break into a million pieces. He was close before from not being touched at all, now with being fucked for the first time by a woman he feels simultaneously sinful, and the best he’s ever felt in his entire life. 

He couldn’t last. He really couldn’t.

“Mmmh!!”, he whines against the cock in his mouth. He was trying to tell her that he was going to cum, but it seemed like none of them cared. It only takes a few seconds before his orgasm comes, his whole body twitching as she still thrusted up and down at a rigorous pace. 

“Fuck, did he already cum?!”

“Awww, he’s a little virgin, isn’t he?”

Quentin felt  _ disgusting _ , but even so, Susie didn’t stop.

“Mmmhh, please-” he sobs as best as he could. 

“What did he say?” 

“I think he said ‘keep going’, bro.”

Susie laughs maniacally, her pussy holding him unbelievably tight. His sensitive cock twitched and throbbed, his body overstimulated and exhausted beyond belief. He cried, Joey’s cock ramming down his throat now, Frank slamming into him unsympathetically. Everything was just  _ too much _ , and his cock raged with another orgasm soon after. Susie’s breathing grows louder and doesn’t stop even for a second when she feels his second orgasm. She was nearing her own end, that much was clear, and Quentin could only hope and pray they all we’re.

“You’re our little slut, aren’t you” Frank whispers in his ear as he bites and nips at his neck.

“Fucking fingered yourself before you came here, wanting cock inside of you?”

No.

“You take it like a slut but you cum like a virgin.”

_ No _ .

Suddenly, Susie goes still. She groans and lifts herself a final time before slamming down on his cock. He feels warm liquid spill over him, a mixture of his cum and hers. She twitches and holds onto his shirt, leaned down as she rode out her own orgasm. He was thankful she was seemingly done, but still two cocks remained inside of him. Frank is the first to cum out of them; he thrust into his hole with no rhythm, jabbing his prostate with each and every single thrust, clearly coming to his end. He doesn’t pull out and Quentin feels a stream of cum deep inside of him. Both Susie and Frank are sweaty and exhausted, their bodies suddenly stationary, breathing hitched and hot. Joey was the last and Quentin just wanted him to hurry, his throat ached from the relentless pounding and his neck was surely going to be stiff for weeks. He silently prepped himself to not choke, assuming that he was going to cum inside as well.

He pulled out instead, and as he did Quentin gasped for air. After a few seconds spurts of cum hit his face, his mouth, his hair. 

It was over. It was  _ over _ .

Quentin licks the dribbled cum from Joey’s cock, gaining a moan and a soft pet on the neck in response. Susie gets up slowly, allowing most of the mixture of juices to fall onto his cock and stomach as she exited. She seemed dizzy, wiping a streak of sweat off her brow, huffing quietly. Frank pulls himself out of Quentin’s hole and rests for only a few seconds more before lifting Quentin off of his chest. Quentin falls onto the couch, weak and limp, body red and bruised. He rested there, not even trying to collect himself and run away. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to. He was completely at the will of the Legions, physically, mentally and spiritually. Whatever they wanted to do, they could.

“What  _ now _ ?” 

Julie was still present. Quentin had nearly forgotten about her. She was leaned against a pillar near the dull fire, eyes fixated on it instead of the faces of her comrades. 

“We let him go.”

All three turned to look at Frank.

“What?”

“I mean, look at him, you really want him hangin’ around and draggin’ down the fucking mood?”

“He  _ does  _ look sad.” 

That was the first time he had heard Susie talk. She sounded a lot softer than he thought she would.

“Whatever, losers. How the fuck do we even get him out of here?” Without waiting for a response from her friends, Julie sighed and stepped forward to the boy. She crouched down to meet his face. “How the hell did you get here, kid?”

“I...don’t know…” 

His voice was raspy and quiet. He wasn’t even sure if she had heard him.

“Alright. Just-” she tries to help him get up. Her arms wrap around his waist as she lifts and Quentin holds onto her. His legs wobble beneath him, quivering, almost unable to hold his weight. Julie picks up his pants for him and pulls them up, allowing Quentin to take the reins from there. He can hear the rest of Legion snicker and laugh amongst themselves, but Julie stayed quiet. There is a somewhat sincere look on her face. Maybe she pitied him.

“Come on, I’ll take you to the gate.”

Julie stays close to Quentin as he takes his first steps. He is able to walk, but only barely. She leads him to a hole in the wall, caused by a bulldozer of some sort, and out back into the trial area. She guides him to the gate, which had been open.

Had it been open the entire time?

“Well, here you go, uh,” she stays near the entrance as Quentin ventures forth. He turns to look at her as she spoke.

“And  _ don’t _ come back.”

He turned back to the exit, and left through it, looking like hell and feeling just as bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! More to come. ＼(*^▽^*)/


	9. Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything here was like a horror story. Violent, grotesque, a vision of twisted wants and desires; it's a miracle he had lived to this point, but he wasn't sure he would live past it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: rape, childhood trauma, pedophilia mentions, age regression (mental), crossdressing, vomit, lots of dumb plot shit and other extremely triggering content.  
> Thank you, everyone, for your continued support on this project! I hope you are satisfied with this ending. Please let me know what you think!

 He rocked himself back and forth, one hand tangled into his locks of sweaty and still cum filled hair, the other holding his knees close to his chest. He rattled and shook against the tree behind him, uncaring of the wetness, the cold rain or frankly anything else. He was terrified of whatever killer laid in this trial, if it even  _ was _ one. His calm and determined demeanor had crumbled like paper. Everything he had pushed away had came back faster than a freight train and hit twice as hard.

He couldn't take it anymore.

\--

The walk back to the campfire was a tired one. His body ached, his legs threatened to give out at any moment, his clothes we're in disarray and he didn't even have a mirror to fix his overall look. He spent the entire of the walk cleaning himself off, having to occasionally pause to wipe cum from his ass. The rest of the time was spent desperately trying to get it out of his hair, but all his efforts only made it worse. Though, he was glad that it wasn't  _ that _ painful. They had gone easy on him. It could have been so much worse, he was lucky.

He kept telling himself that, and he even started to believe it.

All he could think about was the campfire; he wanted it's warmth oh so terribly badly. He never thought he would think that. Before, he might have told you he liked the trials, because at the very least they kept his mind occupied. And, although he  _ hated  _ it more than he hated anything else, it felt good to see Freddy, in a way. It was familiar. Sometimes he forgot he existed outside of this place, that he had a life and friends before. A family, parents. Nancy. Sometimes it's hard to remind yourself that you're real and people can see and remember you, and as much as he hated it, sometimes it's good to be reminded of that, even if it hurts. 

But the pain lately had begun to swell. He had no outlet, no place to tunnel everything he had went through. Nea was unreliable - he didn't even know anything about her beside her name - and even as such, she had seen too much of him already. He was dreading seeing her face again, the face of any of them. If they didn't know already they would know now. He stunk like sex and sweat and cum and to make matters worse it was all visible on him, and there was nothing he could even do. His corporeal form was coupled in emotion; the wanting to tell somebody everything was drowned out by the shame. He wanted to isolate himself; needed to. He convinced himself he could deal with this as long as he kept everyone ignorant about it. He would tell Nea to keep her mouth shut; he could deal with everything on his own time, he proved just as much with Legion. 

The yellow of the fire creeps through the woods. It's glow reaches into the dark and lights his path, illuminating various objects stored by the others, but nobody was around. A jolt of panic and dread runs through him. He prayed to any God there might be that they  _ didn't know. _ He stops just outside the clearing and claps his hands together, looking up, muttering a desperate plea to the empty sky. 

He slowly walks through the woods and enters the clearing. 

Seemingly everyone was sitting around the campfire. Nobody was laughing, not a single person was smiling. They all whispered to each other, grim expressions of disgust plastered across their faces. Quentin's heart raced, it's beat irregular and quicker than he had ever felt, ears full of the sound of it's familiar rushing. He felt suddenly lightheaded, mind racing, trying to convince himself that they were talking about something else,  _ anything else. _

Someone looks over, he can't discern who - he's too out of it - and quickly everyone else follows. The entire camp was staring at him wobbling out of the woods, their faces suddenly a little softer. He stops in his tracks and quickly scans for Nea, and he finds her; she looked the most horrified out of any of them. As soon as their eyes meet she stands, power walking towards Quentin, and he knows instantly what she's done.

His body trembles. He feels as if he was going to vomit. He stumbles backwards, and quickly runs back into the woods.

“Wait. Wait!”

Her voice calls after him but the blood in his ears drowns it out. His legs burn with exertion as he sprints as fast as he could into the forest, brush and twigs catching on his legs as the wind hit his sweaty face. He can hear footsteps behind him, one pair, maybe more, but it didn't matter. He didn't - no,  _ couldn't -  _ have them see him. 

But this world had always been against him. It's goal was to emit a great deal of pain from him, and that's what it intended to do. A vine, or otherwise wet natural limb is what he trips on. To be fair, he wasn't exactly paying attention a great deal to where he was going, only his endgame which was anywhere but here, but when he falls it's suddenly gone. He hits the muddy ground with a yelp and a thud, going head first into shame with bloodied hands to prove it.

“Quentin! Stop!”

Nea reaches him. He figured he should have known she would either way, she looked far more nimble than he. Her hands reach to help him up but even with her intent he moves away from it. He didn't want to be touched by anybody, much less the woman who decided to tell everyone he had been raped.

“Quentin, please stop,” she pleads, keeping her distance but still obviously ready to chase after him again. “Please let us help you…!”

Quentin is dazed. His vision is unfocused and his ears are full of the sound of blood. He, frankly, felt like he was going to pass out, but his rage kept him from giving into it. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!”, He screams at her, his hands inderd covered in a layer of blood and dirt. He turns towards her and sees she had been followed by David and Meg, who both looked rather pissed themselves. “Do you have any idea what you've done?”

“Calm down there mate,” David interjected uncharacteristically calmly. “We just wan'ta help you.”

“ _ Help _ me?”

The very idea of them wanting to help him fueled his fire. They wanted to help because they felt bad; because Quentin was weak. He was weak and frail and even with women like Claudette, who could never hurt even a fly, he was the easiest target.  _ He _ was the one that all of the killers took. 

Because he was weak.

“The only way you could have fucking helped me was if you kept your mouth shut. Now everybody knows and it's your fault!”

“Quentin! If you want to be mad at anyone, be fucking mad at me.” It's Meg. She stood in front of Nea, jumping to her defense like a puppy. “She told me to keep it quiet and I didn't. But she only told me because she was fucking scared!”

“She's scared?” The very idea was laughable. Nothing happened to her; he was the one who had endured it, and now, she was playing victim. “She didn't go through it, and now she's only made it fucking…”

His head, which had been pounding with stress and blood, now sharpened in it's pain. His mind was running, thinking of a million different things, memories and details he had forgotten rushing back like a cracked dam. His hands go to rub his temples, eager to ease the sudden influx of pain. 

“Quentin? Are you alright?”

He hears them talking but he can't focus on it. His eyes are held tightly shut, almost involuntarily but rather instinctively. He can't pinpoint a singular sound but suddenly it's  _ loud  _ and continues to grow so. His body trembles as he feels cold air thrust upon him, and suddenly he knows exactly what had happened.

_ Trial. Another trial. _

It was impossible. Nobody had ever been forced into a trial so soon after another; because God damn it, he couldn't do this anymore. Everything was wrong. Not a single thing had been in his favor for God knows how long now.

He opens his eyes when the throbbing in his head comes to a pause. It stops, just like that, like clockwork, as if someone had simply pressed a button to turn it on and off. He observed his surroundings with great haste, legs still burning but ready to run at the first given chance he had. But something stopped him. A thought he was unsure was even his.

‘ _ I’ll never get out alive. I might as well submit.’ _

He was, before, subject to intrusive thoughts. They came at random, an effect of mental illness and trauma. But there was something about that thought that terrified him. That's not how he spoke, nor was it in his usual voice. You don't notice it till it changes, but everyone has a voice that their thoughts are spoken in - and terrifyingly, that wasn't it. It was much too clear, too old.

He suddenly felt violated beyond what he had felt before. 

He falls to the ground, his legs giving out beneath him despite his previous need to run. He curls into himself, using the wet bark behind him to keep himself up, body shaking from fear and the freezing wet rain. It no longer mattered to him - he was preoccupied with sins in his head and pain in his body. His mind rushed with memories, wants and desires, fears, anxieties and hatred. He felt overwhelmed with it all. Flashes of his childhood ran through his mind; friends, summers, scraped knees and bike rides.  _ That _ 's what he wanted to remember, and he did, if but for a moment. He remembers the blood and pain, jealousy and fear, happiness and pleasure just as well. Freddy's face comes to his mind. What he had done comes back in a startling wave he had never remembered - or, at the very least, never remembered remembering. Had Freddy somehow got into his head? Implanted these memories, these thoughts?

He wasn't making sense anymore. His mind ran and so did his mouth. He muttered things underneath his breath, things he remembered, things he couldn't discern anymore. The line between memory and dream faded. There was no longer right or wrong, only is or isnt's.

There is a pair of heavy footsteps and a low humming tune just in his range of hearing, but he's too far gone. His eyes were open, barely, but even as such, he saw nothing. His mind was too loud, his body was no longer of his own.

“Little?”

Her voice calls him, and yet he doesn't answer. She walks in front of him, her hatchet which had been firmly in hand now rested at her side, unthreatening. She approaches him, head tilted in confusion, knees bended down to meet him face to face.

“Little. What you doing here?”

He notices her now but he's not entirely there. “I can do it, I can do it. I promise.”

His words make no sense. One of her strong hands go to touch his face, and using the back of her hand, he feels his forehead. “Hot” she claims out loud. “Hot bad.”

In one motion, she takes him into her grasp. She picks him up by his underarms, then bounces him up to hold him as if he were a child, his face planted right above her breasts, her heartbeat audible as his head rests there. He doesn't try to fight or escape, instead, he goes limp in her able hands.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

“No sorry. You sick. Take care of you.”

She didn't seem to grasp his situation. “Please don't hurt me,” he's quiet and his body starts to shake with tears. “I'll do better next time. I promise.” 

“No hurt. Promise.”

He begins to sob. Everything hurt, everything was too much. He felt vulnerable and weak, like a newborn thrown into a life or death situation and expected to survive. He feels the weight of it all on his shoulders; he feels guilty, shameful, ugly and small, even though deep inside somewhere he knew it wasn't his fault. 

The Huntress takes him to a worn down wooden house. It was creaky and cold, but at the very least it had a fire going. For the most part, it protected from the rain, and if he was conscious enough to understand that, Quentin would have been thankful. She sets him down in a corner of the room, one that was particularly dry and close to the warmth of the fire. He falls apart like a pile of wet noodles as soon as her arms didn't keep him together. He laid limp, still shaking with tears, submissive to whatever fate held in store for him - to whatever her fate for him was. 

She steps away for a moment but comes back seconds later. She lifts his body up like a ragdoll and positions him into a sitting pose, his back against the wall, his legs spread in front of him.

“I make  _ zaika  _ better.”

It's only when they're truly face to face does Quentin begin to come back. He remembers her - that woman, that beast. He died to her. She was vicious and blood hungry, a killer, a predator confined in a cage with only the mice to hunt. That's what comes to mind first, but it's followed by her comforting warmth and her broken but soft words.

“Huntress”, he whispers, the only comprehensible thing he's said in to her yet.

“Anna.”

 He feels like he should be afraid - he wanted to, even still, get back to the campfire, but something in him tells him she was his beacon of hope.

"Wait," she says, and she walks away again. Quentin can't see her, but he hears objects colliding and the familiar sound of a chest being opened. He's nervous about what she was going to pull out, but his anxiety is misplaced. A blanket, crude in nature, clearly skinned from a real animal. Bear, was it? His father was the hunter, not him. It was some sort of fur, and whatever it was, it had to be big.

It looks big even in her large hands. She brings it to him in only two strides, a testimony to her own size, and sets it on his lap. She smiles as she tucks him in, making sure that every inch of his shaking body was covered in it.

As she goes to stand once again, she leaves him with a soft pat on the head.

It's too familiar. What should have been a comforting action left him suddenly fearful, and he didn't know why anymore.

She turns her back on him and goes back into her chest. He cuddles himself into the blanket, the heaviness of the thing making him sleepy, and as such he taps his foot to make sure he would stay awake. He had a lingering knowing that the moment he fell asleep, he wouldn't be spared interaction with him.

And, truthfully, that was the last thing he could take. He was sure that would be his breaking point.

“Here!”

Quentin watches as she comes back once more. She's holding something in her hands, but he can't discern what, it's much too dark and she's facing away from the fire. It's brightly colored, pastel, he can tell that much. As she stepped closer with a childlike giddiness he could see it more clearly; pink, albeit dirtied. Fabric. White laced. It looked like…

A dress.

Anna confidently holds it in front of him. Quentin's jaw lays agape, confused and somewhat terrified. Was she just showing it off? It looked small, like the dress for a girl in middle school.

“Good?”

He didn't know the right answer. “Uhm...it's...nice…”

“Good! Put on!”

_ Absolutely not. _ “A-Absolutely not!”

The Huntress shakes her head, but her smile doesn't disappear. “It's pretty. You will like.” She shoves it closer to Quentin's face.

His heart began to beat against his ribcage. This woman was insane! She was just like the others. She was going to hurt him if he said no, she was going to  _ hurt him _ . It's the only thought that ran through his head. He let himself be weak and once again, it was going to backfire.

“Please no,” he cries. He understands he's weak but he can't change it; he was conditioned to be such since he was just a child. He was conditioned - no, forced - to stay quiet, to  _ please _ . 

“You are cold. New clothes will help.”

Her hands go to pull the blanket down and he doesn't resist. He backs up as far as he could towards the wall, legs held tightly closed, shaking, arms held defensively in front of him.

“I can't, I can't, not again,” he's sobbing and stuttering, a complete mess of pleads and begs. Anna looks onto him, her head tilted in confusion, arms hovering over his. He was teetering on the edge between insanity and reality, one foot in a dream, the other in front of her. He felt incomplete, but worse yet, incapable to defend himself. All he could do was beg and pray, and try to understand what she was saying through the sound of his own grainy voice.

“Why are you crying?”

He doesn't answer. He can't; but there is something else that begs his attention. With a flash of light and the boom of thunder, there is a pair of heavy footsteps and the sound of something metal jingling. Anna notices it before he does; she perks up, as if a rabbit sensing a predator. She stands to her feet with amarming speed, leaving the dress in Quentin's lap. She grabs her axe and stands, feet heavy on the ground, body moving with the footsteps that circled the little cabin.

“Nadānu.”

The voice calls from just outside the walls. Anna tightens her grip on her axe, holding it unwaveringly between her fingers. 

The figure shows itself and repeats - “ _ Nadānu.” _

The woman is tall, disgustingly so. She was single handedly the tallest person Quentin had ever seen in his entire life, rivaling even monsters like Myers. Her eyes seemed to glow in the darkness, a sickly blue as far as he could see. The fire did little to show her figure, which hesitated in the doorway to his right, but from what he could see, he was terrified. She wore something white - a dress, it looked like. But something was wrong. It was covered in green and brown stains, some of which looked wet even still. Mucus? Liquid? It was something, he was positive. Her face was cut, deformed and by all accounts  _ foul. _ In her hand, which laid at her side, held a metal...thing. It looked like a lamp but he couldn't be sure.

“Go,” Anna hisses, her voice deep and powerful, threatening.

The woman says nothing, but her head turns from Anna to look directly at Quentin. Her gaze sent not a shiver, but terror. He felt as if he was looking into the eyes of something ancient, something so much more powerful than anything he had seen before.

The Huntress steps in the way of her view to him. She reiterates, this time, one step being taken towards her.

“ **Go.** ”

Unintimidated, the woman steps into the cabin. Her right hand lifts, and the metal cage being held in her hand is whipped on the other woman. The Huntress tried to block, however, it whirls onto her head, the side of her face flooded with blood, her mask cracked.

The Huntress let's out an unbearably terrifying howl, and quickly she lunges towards the other, teeth sharp and axe sharper. Quentin, for the first time in a while, senses danger beyond anything he had felt before. He had never seen this woman before and frankly she looked oddly out of place; terrifyingly in control. He jumps to his feet, using the back wall as a guide to get himself out of there. He watches them fight, as if you could call it that. Anna struggles to even match her power, her grunts of pain getting louder and louder, a pool of blood at her feet, barely illuminated by the fire. He stands at the other entrance, the gate in his sight, opened and unbarred by it's usual metal wall. It was  _ open. _ He could run, he could leave, but something in his heart makes him stay. He wanted to help her. He wanted to grab one of her hatchets - her chest was right there, within his reach - but his body doesn't move toward it. 

With a piercing scream, the woman throws Anna into the fire. She instantly runs out of it, but the damage had been done. She falls to the ground, screaming in pain, and he can see the red hot embers all over her body. Desperately she wipes herself, trying to get the burning to  _ stop _ , but she can't. 

The woman kicks her down, her foot holding Anna down with ease. Quentin watches as The Huntress flails and struggles, growling and screaming in a language he didn't quite understand, but eventually, she stops.

He can't tell if she's dead, or just  _ done _ . He wasn't even sure if they  _ could _ die, but either way, a wave of guilt washed over him. She did everything she could to help him. She had been the only light in his darkness, even if she was inexperienced and unknowing - and he watched her potentially die, doing nothing to help save her.

The woman turns to Quentin, a look of cool supremacy written across her scarred lips. The corner of her mouth curls into a smile, and suddenly, his fight or flight instinct allows him to move.

He turns and runs.

He sprints as fast as he can towards the gate. It’s open like he had observed earlier, but there is something telling him to stay. He doesn’t look back as he runs through it, and instead only does so when his body starts to give out from exhaustion. 

He had felt like he had been running forever. His legs ached, his body was covered in a thick coat of sweat and rain, and suddenly he was unsure if he should keep going. The camp wouldn’t be any better. They we’re all probably there right now, talking about him, wondering where he had gone. Maybe Nea and the others didn’t even tell them he had suddenly disappeared but that he had just ran off into the woods and they couldn’t find him. Maybe he was entirely wrong, and they had already forgotten about him entirely.

He wasn’t sure which scared him more: the possibility that they didn’t care, or the possibility they did. 

He starts to walk. He looks over his shoulder, making sure he wasn’t being followed, and sure enough, its empty. He suddenly feels incredibly alone, but it’s not something he hates. (He  _ does  _ hate it, but he convinces himself it’s better than being with...well.) It’s another arduous journey, he assumes, one filled with contemplation and trying to remember what’s been happening for the past few trials. It’s difficult - he couldn’t remember the specifics of anything that had happened to him recently, instead, he only remembered them in great detail when he didn’t want to. He knew he had been fucked by Myers, Leatherface, yada yada, but the events itself was hazy now. 

You know, until they weren’t.

Like his brain, the world around them began to smoke. He notices it instantly, a great contrast from the empty plain he had been walking in just a moment ago. The woods is close in front of him, he can see the treeline, maybe that was it? Just the fog of the woods reaching out a ways. He tries to tell himself that, but as he looks over his shoulder, he sees a now familiar tall stature, one hand outstretched holding a now bloodied cencer in her grasp. 

He whispers a quiet ‘fuck’ under his breath, and runs towards the treeline. What had been contemplation about even going back to the fire was replaced by his dire will to not be violated  _ ever again _ .

As far as he knew, they didn’t come within the camp. He wasn’t sure if they even could, this world had so many damn rules. But it didn’t matter; even if she did come into camp, surely his friends would rush to his aid, if only to protect themselves, right? 

He hoped so.

He doesn’t have to run far. Almost as soon as he hit the forest, the campfire was in his sight. It’s glow touches his skin and suddenly he feels a little bit better. He turns for a split second and sees her, still following suit, long legs able to walk and close the gap between them. But he doesn’t worry - safety was within his grasp, and he would be damned if he gave up now. He tumbles into the clearing, huffing with fatigue and trembling from exertion and anxiety. The moment he comes through the woods, the faces of the entire camp turn to see him. Nea and Meg stand to their feet and Claudette quickly pulls out a medkit, pushing past Nea gently to show him he what she was holding. Their faces turn from pity to confusion and then fear as Quentin’s worst fear had come to light.

She didn't stop. She followed him into their campsite.

Quentin looks behind him and sees her, his heart jumping with adrenaline and panic. This wasn’t supposed to happen.  _ This wasn’t supposed to happen _ .

As he’s looking back at her, brain running to figure out what to do next, he runs into something. He slams right into it and instantly he falls to the ground, a wetness instantaneously feeling its way to his forehead. Blood. His mind goes blank as he tumbles, only one thing retaining:

‘ _ This is it _ .’

Everything here was like a horror story. Violent, grotesque, a vision of twisted wants and desires; it's a miracle he had lived to this point, but he wasn't sure he would live past it. That woman’s intentions were as clear as day to him. She was going to rape him, and everyone was going to watch. Would they even help? Would they come to his aid? Were they right now? And even if they did, what could they do? 

What in the hell did he bump into?

His eyes open only when he can feel the heat of the woman’s body. In front of him is a tangled web of limbs, the ones that come out when you got on the hook too many times. Their sharp edges had cut into his face when he ran into them. Through the dizziness he can see his friends, most standing in shock, others running towards him. They were going to help - maybe they could even get to him before she did anything.

The woman took Quentin by his hair and kicked him to his feet. He barely reached her groin standing, a terrifying demonstration of where he was compared to her, both physically and otherwise. With one hand she’s able to hold his entire weight, his feet barely touched the ground now, his head spinning with the sharp pain of his already-abused scalp being used as a rope to hold him up. He tried to fight her, wriggle, but it only made the pain worse. He uses his hands to hold onto her arm, trying to lift himself to ease the pain at least a bit, but he’s too feeble to do it for long.

“Hey! Let him fuckin’ go, ya crazy cunt!” 

David is screaming profanities and threats somewhere behind him now. From the corner of his eyes he can see the limbs had created something of a circle around them, just high and sharp enough to prevent anyone from entering. 

This had to be hell. He was dead, and this was his punishment; they would all see what was going to happen, and be powerless, just like Quentin himself, to stop it.

The woman pulls the flap of her dress up and throws it to the side of his face. Revealed is her vagina; and, like the rest of her skin, it's decrepit. It’s scarred and bubbly and deathly red and blue, completely bare of hair or other normal, healthy signs. Quentin shrivels at the sight of it. He  _ liked  _ women. He  _ liked  _ women’s parts, all kinds of them, but this was another level of disgusting. It was unnatural, repugnant.

She pushes his face into it. He groans, trying to force his head away from it, but it was useless. She had him right where she wanted him, that much was apparent. She kicks at his feet and lifts him higher as he struggles, a punishment in a way. He knew what she wanted, and he was going to do it whether or not he was a corpse, he knew that much.

He swallows the last bit of pride and dignity he had, and sticks out his tongue to meet her. 

He’s instantly set back down where he could touch the ground. Barely, but it was enough to ease the pain. He could feel blood rushing down his scalp and head, it’s warm gooey texture doing just all the more to make him feel beyond foul. And, for a second, he doesn’t realize that there was more than just blood running down his head.

Some of it gets into his mouth, and it surely the fuck wasn’t blood. 

Instantly he goes to spit, but the woman holds him steadfast. It tasted salty and acidic, like someone mixed grapefruit with salt and then had it sit out in the sun for a week. It was one of the most vulgar things that he had ever tasted, putrid and vile, words could barely do it justice. Even as so, he’s unsure of what it is, until he hears her regurgitate.

Vomit. It was fucking vomit. She was vomiting on him.

He was covered in dozens of things now. Sweat, tears, blood and vomit, and  _ fuck  _ it smelled like it too. The humiliation that everyone was looking at him right now sunk in even more, he can hear their screaming and yelling, confusion and disgust. He could only pray that they had the good sense to look away, but even then, it wouldn’t be of any use. 

The woman speaks in some language that Quentin can’t understand. She’s saying things in a tone of voice that sounded happy. This crazy fuck was getting off on it, her pussy sopping wet as Quentin lapped and licked, mostly unsure of what he was doing, hoping it was good enough to get her to cum and be done with this punishment. He hated to say it but he was used to sucking cock, that much he could do; this was unfamiliar territory, and even though he was young and in a situation where he didn’t get to choose, he felt useless. Some part of him screamed at himself for not doing good enough even now.

“ _ Anna apālu, _ ” she groans above him, and suddenly, a steady flow of warm liquid spills onto his face.

She holds him there even after she apparently cums (Quentin is unsure. He’s never seen a girl cum in real life before, aside from Susie, and he couldn’t see). He laps it up as best as he could, and when she’s had her fill, she drops him to the ground. He falls, unexpectedly, unrealizing that most of his weight was being held up by her. He lands on his knees, and suddenly, a distance enters his head. Abruptly he feels out of body, like he was watching in third person. The vomit and blood pooled around and in front of him, and he watches in his peripherals as the limbs loosen and leave him, instead moving around her as she walked.

“Get the fuck back here!”, David screams, chasing after her, but it’s no use. She was able to walk back into the forest unharmed, the Entity protecting her journey back to whatever hole she had crawled out of. He’s stuck in that state, looking down at his own reflection in the pond of liquids, suddenly not finding himself all that familiar.

‘ _ I can make it all go away. _ ’

That voice in his head,  _ that  _ he can remember. He had heard it before that night, but this time, he’s less afraid.

“How?”

“God, somebody, get me a fucking towel!”

‘ _ I’ll make them all forget. _ ’

“Please, I want it to stop.”

“Quentin, y-you’re okay, just…” There is a clamoring and shadows are surrounding him. “Back the fuck up, give him some space!”

_ ‘Submit _ .’

“Oh fuck. Jesus Christ. Quentin! Can you hear me?”

“I’ll do whatever you want, just please, make it stop.” 

“He’s in shock. Help him up, get him to the f-”

Suddenly everything is different, as if the world had suddenly phased out of existence. 

“Where the fuck did he…”

Quentin looks up, his vision vague and blurry, a shadow of indiscernible shape and size in front of him.

_ ‘They’ll forget you, and you’ll submit completely, in body, in mind.’ _

His body is heavy, and he is almost unable to respond. 

“Please.”

Images flash in his mind. Claudette’s gentle french accent, Ace’s boisterous laughs as he won a game of cards, Feng’s lectures on why one game is better than another, Bill’s stories of zombies and creatures he claimed were totally real. They would all forget him. He would be alone and he couldn’t even be sure if what was his life before was real. Did anyone anywhere remember him, or did he disappear so smoothly, that nobody realized he was gone? Did anybody mourn him?

Would he just cease to exist, past, present and future?

The fog clouds him once more. This time, it’s softer, a little more forgiving. A recognizable glow enters his vision as the mist lessens, and he’s drawn to it. The woods open to a clearing, something he has memories of, but something different. It’s a little smaller, a little more empty, and no voices but one ring.

“Welcome back.”

Quentin walks towards Freddy, who’s sitting on a log, legs crossed, claw beckoning. He’s unafraid. He can feel the presence of something old guiding him forward, as if it was standing right beside him, even though nothing was there. It was comforting, in a way, even though he knew what was going to happen.

He drops to his knees in front of where Freddy sat, and looked steadfast to the ground.

“You look dirty,” he remarks. Quentin was sure it was true, even now he could feel the vomit crusted in his hair. 

“You’ll look a lot better in this.”

He throws him a dress - pink in color, white lace on the edges and collar. It looks a bit dirty itself, stained with blood perhaps, but it didn’t matter. Something about it strikes a memory, but he can’t discern quite what. He staggers to his feet, still refusing to look Freddy or frankly anyone else in the eye, working to undress himself and make the tight dress fit.

“You’ll be good for me today, won't you,  _ Nancy _ ?”

He drops back to his knees, Freddy’s clawed hand scraping his neck, forcing him to meet eye to eye.

“Yes, Mr. Kruger.”

“Good girl.”

A devouring hunger, a complete, violent passion, like a storm. This was no longer a world in which he was to survive and struggle in and out of trials, useless trials that ultimately meant nothing, it was a world where he served a purpose. That fire was dimmer than the one back at camp, and didn’t warm quite as completely, but it was something. In between the killers that would occasionally wander in and out of his new home, he was free to bask in it, even sleep if he wanted to. 

But nothing rid the world of that violent and grotesque storm, that ultimately debilitating and awful feeling of violation and inability to fight. Quentin convinced himself he was content living like this, and the survivors, still stuck in limbo, were left clueless as to what had happened. One moment he was there, talking to himself, and the next, he was gone and never seen again. 

Quentin was an expert, at this point, at living this way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again! It's been a wild ride, but it's time to put Quentin's torture to rest (for now).  
> See you all in the fog ♥️


End file.
